The Devil's Obsession
by Rainsaber
Summary: How much can the human mind take? How far does one have to push until something breaks? New enemies, new allies, and a labyrinth of deception to unravel for the League after Mongolia. But one of their own stands in the way, foolishly playing the hero.
1. Unfinished Business

**_Synopsis:_** How much can the human mind take? How far does one have to push until something breaks? Three months after Allan's death, the League is on a mission from Mycroft Holmes and the English Crown to round up the remaining scientists from Moriarty's underground project. Their youngest, still reeling from the deaths of his brother in arms and mentor, is suddenly confronted with a nightmare from his Missouri childhood, one that proves to be more dangerous for him and the League than the young American originally thought.

**__****_Author's Notes:_** Moriarty is dead, so don't worry, he's not coming back. And on that note, Dorian is also staying dead…sorry to disappoint. This story contains slash, but rest assured that Sawyer is completely heterosexual. The only romantic pairing in this story, though minor, will be between Jekyll and Mina. Italics denotes a memory. Everything between single quotations 'like this' is internal thinking. Italics set between two hypens —like this— is strictly for Edward Hyde when Jekyll is the one in control and vise versa. This is a sensitive topic for many people so please treat it with respect when reviewing. It's not an easy subject to read about, let alone write about. But there are stories such as this that need to be read, written, and told because there are so many unspoken stories that never are.

**_Warning:_** This story addresses issues of rape, sexual assault, and nonconsensual situations. This is an angst heavy story and because of the subject matter it will be both suggestive and graphic at times. This story is rated M for good reasons. If this bothers you or you think it may bother you, then do not read. It's that simple.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I own nothing but my original characters...which unfortunately are the baddies. The League belongs to Alan Moore. Thomas Sawyer belongs to Mark Twain. etc. etc. etc. I think you get the picture. This is NOT written for profit, I get nothing from this at all.

* * *

**Chapter One**—Unfinished Business

Tom Sawyer had much preferred the desolate and dry landscape of Kenya to the overpopulated and damp city of London. Part of him didn't mind staying in the foreign country if it meant staying away from civilization. He wasn't quite accustomed to the city life, considering the bulk of his childhood spent among the small towns of the Mississippi river, but for now it was all that was familiar and within reach. The only familiar thing that comforted Sawyer was the fog. It reminded him of the vastness of the American prairie back home.

Despite the changes within, Tom Sawyer was the same in appearance; the white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, the dark trousers with suspenders trailing behind, a dark vest with holsters holding the memorable American pistols hanging by secure leather shoulder straps, an equally dark, long coat, and the black hat that hid his eyes from the rest of the world. Mystery quickly became more of a personality trait for Sawyer rather than a skill in the last few weeks, since the League left Africa. "The grieving process is different for everyone" was Jekyll's opinion on the situation. Skinner seemed imprudent, Nemo was ambivalent, and Mina was as indecipherable as any woman Sawyer had met in his life.

The night watch however, gave him some relief from the others. Tom couldn't really blame their protectiveness because he _was_ the youngest. He'd acted the same way with Huck when he was alive, as an older brother who tried his damned hardest to keep the evils of the world at bay. He scoffed inwardly. Look where that got them both…

Huck's death would never leave Tom, and he knew that. But he still couldn't get over the fresh sting of Allan's death, something that surprised the American who always prided himself on his independent nature. It was no secret that the mentor-like relationship that started between the two of them grew into something more, maybe something akin to a father and his son…But Tom would never let that notion stay in him, because he would never ask that of Allan, because he respected the man too much, even though that was what he really wanted deep down, someone that he'd never had as a child. But then again, Tom never really had a chance to have a real childhood, not since a chance summer meeting that he'd been trying to forget for almost ten years.

He had to tighten his hold on one of his colt pistols that rested comfortably in his jacket pocket because of his sweaty palms. The proximity of the weapon, as compared to being in its normal home in the black holster where the other resided, was a comfort after what he thought he saw tonight. The young American prayed that he'd just imagined it, that it was a cruel trick of shadows on a similar face and physical build, but something in his gut told him otherwise, that his worst nightmare had actually come true, that a man who had been haunting the past ten years of his life had finally reappeared.

In the fading twilight, the young agent blended into the shadow of the streets, waiting for his target to reappear, taking solace in the fact that he wasn't alone in this foreign country, that he had a safe haven to retreat to. Since the League had left Mongolia, they had learned of four scientists that escaped and fled to Europe. A close eye had been kept on all four, as per request of her royal majesty by word of Mycroft Holmes. Every member of the League gave the poor man a good and satisfactory interrogation, and to Holmes' relief, every member of the League placed some amount of trust in the man. Sawyer had been the most hesitant of all the league members to become the 'League' again, and part of the reason was that for him it was just too soon after everything that had happened.

Besides Sawyer's personal reservations, mutilated corpses of men had been found dumped in the back alleys of abandoned warehouses, near the docks, bodies that looked unnatural, as if they had been part of some horrible experiment. Once the League had actually seen the remains for the first time Mina and Jekyll took it the worst, claiming that somehow the results of Moriarty's research had escaped the Mongolian compound that had been reduced to ashes in the frozen tundra. Skinner's reaction wasn't too far behind. Sawyer supposed it was possible that duplicates, of the box that he kicked into the frozen sea after M's dead body, were made.

Hell, it would have been idiotic not to make more considering M's hunger for enterprise, for profit in a world where war was inescapable. They'd just been lucky that the international tensions lessened for the meantime, though for how long no one knew. This recent activity had suggested a cause for suspicion in these men once the League had tracked them down, a suspicion in the line of national terrorism, which would make quite an issue for her majesty's security forces. Each member but the captain, of course, had chosen one man to follow. Sawyer's man was an awkward but very capable character that went by the name of Mr. Nathaniel Edwards.

Edwards was a short man with little hair to show for his early years. The only unique quality about this man's external appearance was a pair of oversized glasses that were partially hidden under a dark green derby hat that he was never seen without. On this particular night, Edwards led Sawyer to a number of unimportant parties and card games, boring to say the least, but not out of character. Any of the conversation exchange that was picked up by the young agent was either about politics or sports. He gave up on the man around three in the morning, when Edwards finally settled down back at his shady apartment. Another night went by without any action.

Walking back to the Nautilus, Sawyer couldn't stop his mind from wondering about the differences he could have or should have made as the additional member that no one really wanted in the beginning. He knew that Dorian was the main instigator to that argument, and that no one else really showed his enthusiasm when Tom proved himself capable. But he still couldn't help but wonder what his place was now. He was twenty-one years old, like a child compared to the other members of the league, and what did he have to show for it? All that he brought to the table was the cocky and thrill-seeking American attitude that Allan often criticized him on.

Tom sighed in the darkness.

And at that exact moment, Rodney Skinner decided to make his presence known by 'accidentally' nudging Sawyer in the side. The young American gasped and jumped sideways into a brick wall, temporarily disorienting himself and nearly pulling the trigger on one of his colts. The light snickering that followed, quickly turning into barking laughter, from thin air made Sawyer's wide eyes narrow in frustration and anger. Catching his breath that had so suddenly escaped him, Sawyer threw his hat to the invisible man for the benefit of his eyes, shoving his pistol back into its holster.

"Jesus Christ, Skinner! You do have a voice don't ya?" Sawyer hissed.

The hat stopped in mid air only a few feet away from Sawyer and started twirling, as it would appear, on its own. "Well if I'm supposed to compensate for your bein' a bit jumpy by listening to your choice of language, then no, I guess I'll have to become a mute," Skinner said, quietly.

"You're not religious," Sawyer retorted while starting the return journey again. Skinner followed but jumped ahead of Sawyer, most likely walking backwards judging from the position of his voice.

"No, but the point I'd like to make for you, kid, is that shoutin' the name of a central figure in the world's most prominent religion ain't exactly the word of welcome here in nis neighborhood. An' wiv us tryin to be all covert on this operation of our ol' buddy Holmes'—"

"Sorry," Sawyer said gruffly. "Where are the others?"

"Saw Mina not too long ago. Probably just finished feedin' for the night."

"Quite to the contrary Mr. Skinner, I finished _feeding_ a mere three hours ago," Mina said stepping out from the shadows of an adjacent alleyway.

"My apologies then," Skinner said with a nod. "How is our Professor Howell doing these nights—

"Are you alright, Tom?" Mina asked.

Sawyer looked into Mina Harker's eyes, noticing that the iris normally blood red at this hour had only a hint of red to it. Her hair had straightened out as well, the curls of her vampiric self smoothed away.

"You look a little paler than usual," she elaborated.

"Nothing. I just don't take well to being snuck up on," he said. His conscience called him a liar for that, and he hoped that she wouldn't notice the nervous flutter in his chest. The only thing the American wanted at this point was his empty room and full bottle of whiskey. Taking the indication that Sawyer made towards Skinner she nodded her head in agreement. Dramatically, Skinner sighed and tossed Sawyer's hat back to him.

"If you two're finished, le's get a move on back to the ship. Would be quite convenient for me considerin' that's where my nicely warm clothes are," Skinner said.

"Where's Hyde?" Sawyer said.

"Edward is back where he belongs at the moment. I hope I shall be acceptable in his place?" Jekyll said, coming up from behind.

"You seem a bit too cheery for late, Jekyll. I'd make a guess that Bromley was a bit tipsy tonight?" Skinner said.

"You'd be correct actually, but things are best discussed back with the captain, of course."

"Good. God knows what this damp weather is doin' to my extremities."

"Oh please, Mr. Skinner, could you spare us for at least one night without references to your nudity?" Mina quipped.

"Sorry love, but I'd wager that you'd think differently if you and I had switched places for one night, and that would be interestin' now wouldn't it?" Skinner said.

Skinner did open his mouth to continue but was silenced with a well-deserved slap across the face by Mina. Sawyer took a side-glance at Jekyll and shrugged; Mina's accuracy had improved. Though the incident should have eased the dark thoughts that swirled in his head, Sawyer remained impassive, caught up with one particular incident of the night that still disturbed him. He hadn't even noticed that they reached the Nautilus until Jekyll shook him out of his stupor. The doctor gave him a knowing look, but Sawyer gave him a steeled one, willing the man to keep his mouth shut.

* * *

At the table usually set for seven, five were now seated. The orderly captain Nemo sat at the head, followed by Mina and Jekyll on his left, and Sawyer and Skinner on his right. Sawyer tried to divert his eyes to the sweet orange tea that had been served to prevent anyone from seeing what lay behind them.

"Shall we start with you Mrs. Harker? I'm very eager to hear of these men's activities," Nemo stated.

"Certainly. I followed Professor Howell to various residences not far from the London Shipyard," she began. "His acquaintances did not seem suspicious until he intercepted Mr. Bromley in a tavern. Dr. Jekyll trailed him into the building whilst I kept watch outside. As I had hoped, I hear that you heard part of a very interesting conversation, Henry?"

"Yes. I was just about to casually order a drink when I heard them speak of a certain man who I could only guess as their employer," Jekyll stated "It seems to me that these four men are not as separate as we've all believed them to be. I did not hear any specifics, but they conversed of certain tests they both seem to be performing."

"Could you speculate as to what kind of tests they may be?" Nemo interrupted.

"I'm afraid all I could conclude from their conversation was that they all seemed to be performing the same kind of tests, or at least that they're all working towards the same goal."

"These four men that we have been tracking, they have been conversing privately with one another?" Nemo asked.

Jekyll nodded. The table was silent for a few moments.

"But how can this be possible?" Nemo asked.

"So it's _finally_ agreed that these blokes are up to somethin' then?" Skinner said.

"Skinner, you've been as skeptical as the rest of us," Tom pointed out.

"Did Mr. Edwards deviate from normality tonight, Agent Sawyer?" Nemo asked.

"Not really. Nothing unusual."

"Has Professor Rousseau had contact with anyone suspicious Mr. Skinner?"

"Nope, Rousseau's the mouse of the bunch. Don't rarely leave his house unless goin' out for a drink at the local tavern," Skinner stated tiredly.

"What tavern does he usually attend?" Jekyll asked.

"Plain Jane's on Thirty-First."

Jekyll glanced sideways at Mina who turned her head at the same time. "…that's the same tavern where I overheard the conversation between Howell and Bromley."

Nemo quietly sighed, clearly upset over the news.

"Looks like our men have a soft spot for Li'l Miss Jane," Skinner stated.

"Well this is just peachy," Sawyer sarcastically voiced. Months of surveillance was thrown out the window now. All along they had believed these men to have had nothing to do with one another, that they had gone back to their own lives and were content to let the Mongolia business lie. But how the hell did those men manage to pull that off? How the hell did the League not notice it before?

Jekyll shut his eyes tight with a bitter smile. "Edward isn't too happy either."

"We should station someone there considering her popularity," Mina said.

"Wait," Sawyer interjected. "We're not going to do anything? We're just going to sit and listen some more?"

"Until we can gather physical evidence for Mr. Holmes our arguments and assumptions will surely fall on deaf ears," Jekyll wearily stated. "There's nothing we can do."

"Do you have an alternative means of proceeding in this case, Agent Sawyer?" Nemo asked.

Sawyer looked at Nemo, transferring his glare into the captain unintentionally. When Nemo blinked and hardened his own, Sawyer looked away, embarrassed and suddenly very tired.

"No," he said, rubbing his eyes, wishing sincerely for the privacy of his own room.

"Are we in agreement, then, that more surveillance is necessary?"

With the nods of assent from the other four, Nemo left the rest of the matter to be discussed in the morning. Sawyer downed the last of his orange tea and, relieved at the quick conclusion, trudged back to his room, ignoring the congregation of the rest of the league behind him in the dining room. That had become the routine: Sawyer left and the rest would gather and talk about him right behind his back. He had been angry at first, but that was slowly giving way to a deeper and more somber feeling, something unwelcome.

It was late, but as usual, it was hard to tell what time of the day it was when the Nautilus was submerged. Thanks to Holmes, the abandoned docks that he had allowed the League the use of for the time being made it convenient for their investigation. The man was currently furnishing an old government building for the League to use as a headquarters, obviously for the convenience of the royal crown, but Sawyer had to wonder whether it was worth it. He had the distinct feeling that Nemo wouldn't abandon his ship so easily. And as far as Tom was concerned, if the captain didn't want to leave, then he didn't either. The whole idea of having such an out in the open place to stay seemed dumb in the first place.

Sawyer closed the door to his room and locked it to keep Jekyll away if the doctor was more curious than he had let on. With disbelief drowning his logic, Tom leaned back against the door to sort out his swirling thoughts. The start of a tremor settled between his shoulders. He ran a shaking hand through his hair and closed his eyes when he saw it again.

Tom remembered standing in an alley waiting for Edwards to leave his fifth party of the evening. He walked down to the street corner and stood for a few moments watching the dwindling traffic in the late hour. Then a passing man looked to his right in profile. The features had aged but were still very distinctive from the nightmares that still reminded Sawyer of a horrible and endless night in Missouri. Air escaped his lungs and his eyes subconsciously widened as he saw the man's head turn even more.

The light from the street lamp only enhanced the menacing façade that he constantly tried to forget. A young couple blocked Sawyer's vision for only a second as they passed by. The gray eyes that had haunted Sawyer from Missouri had now stolen the heat that kept his heart beating from a street corner in London. Before his mind could make sense of what he saw, the man had already crossed the street and was walking down Wilton Road. In his stupor, Sawyer had almost lost track of Edwards, who conveniently chose that moment to move onto his sixth event of the evening.

_ '_Did I really see that bastard walk down that street? It could've been anyone…Yeah…just some old timer and a play of shadows. It has to be. Harding couldn't be here.'

Presently, eyeing the bottle of whiskey he brought from America, Sawyer crossed his room, tossing the coat and hat back on the stand in the corner. As part of the usual night ritual, his hands went to remove the holsters hanging at his sides, but they hovered for a second and reluctantly dropped. He was shaking. Huck would say he was quaking in his boots, and Sawyer hated himself for it. He quickly took a swig of the whiskey and forced the burning liquid down his dry throat, trying desperately to get the image of that man out of his head so he could breathe evenly. Instead of plopping down on the unmade bed, he sat on the floor and let his back fall against the wall opposite the door, leaving the lights on. He set himself up for a long night, but fell asleep after only his third shot.

* * *

_"Tom, I know we ain't hearin' the last of this from Ms. Jones, I jus know it!"_

_ "Will you quit your whinin', Huck! It'll be fine, no one knows but you an me, right?"_

_ "Well, yea but—_

_ "Well what are you frettin' over then? Ms. Jones don't know nothin', she was just intimidatin' us"_

_ "What's that mean?"_

_ "Means she's jus tryin' to scare us. It'll all be fine as long as you keep your trap shut."_

_ "It won't be fine, Tom! What if your Aunt Polly finds out? She'll skin our hides if she knows we're the ones that ruined the laundry with that paint!"_

_ "Huck, relax!" Tom said taking hold of his young friend. They had been walking along a dirt path in the woods leading into town from the island, in which they used for their childhood adventures, on the Mississippi. Though the island now was used for nothing more than entertaining some of the town girls that Tom and Huck deemed worthy. The sun had gone down hours ago and there was no doubt in Tom's mind that Aunt Polly would be waiting at the door to give him the whipping he deserved. _

_ "We didn't ruin it. Everything comes out with lil' soap and water, 'sides, this ain't the worst trouble we been in. Why you so anxious?" Tom asked. _

_ "I don't know, Tom. I just got this strange feelin' I can't shake." Huck whispered. _

_ "A feeling?"_

_ "I know you think they're worth squat and they usually don't bug me more than a day…but this one's different. I've had it for a week, a whole damn week, Tom! And I just can't help but think maybe we got ourselves deep in some shit we might not get out of."_

_ "Huck, you're over-thinkin' the situation—_

_ Tom reached into his pocket but suddenly started turning out every pocket he had on him and looking along the ground cursing to himself. _

_ "What are you—_

_ "The keys to the shed!"_

_ "You lost them? How could you lose the God damned keys?"_

_ "I don't know! You'd better get back 'fore Aunt Polly sends out Alice. Tell 'er that I saw the guy who done it and went after 'em, you got it?"_

_ "Yea, I got it. But, where d'ya think ya left 'em?"_

_ "Maybe back at the raft. You'd better get along, Huck. I'll meet ya back at Aunt Polly's when I find 'em alright?"_

_ "Alright…hey, Tom?"_

_ "What is it?"_

_ "Hurry back, would'ya?"_

_ "Alright, jus' get goin' already!"_

_ Huck disappeared into the darkness of night heading towards the light of the town. Unfortunately for Tom, Huck took all the light with him. Tom hurried back along the path to the river and literally bumped into the raft. He only had to search for a minute to find them shining in the moonlight. His twelve-year old face lit up as he pocketed them and started along the dark path once again, but unfortunately he was delayed when a group of grown men jumped him from behind and forced him to the ground._

_

* * *

_

_**Do let me know what you think! I have a lot of reservations about posting this story and whether or not it's worth the time and effort. I have about half of it written right now so I'll try to make updates of what I have weekly...if anyone has actually reached the bottom of this page...?**_

_**-Rainsaber**_


	2. Breathe

**Chapter Two**—Breathe

Sawyer's body jerked from his drunken sleep with the sound of three seemingly loud knocks on his cabin door. He had to force the muscles in his body to relax and maintain a regular breathing pattern as he rose from the floor. The lights that were still on from the night before blinded him as he tried to move towards the door. A string of colorful curses followed. When he finally managed to open the door he saw Jekyll, refined and a little more cheery than Tom wanted to give him credit for.

"I just came to tell you that breakfast will be ready in about ten minutes or so. Are you alright, Tom?" Jekyll inquired.

Sawyer had been trying to rub off the effects of his irregular sleep, but instead must have appeared ill to the ever-studying doctor. Briefly, he mentally noted to himself how tired of that question he was starting to get.

"Yeah, I'm fine…Just didn't sleep too good."

"…You were drinking last night weren't you?" Jekyll had been eyeing Sawyer's behavior from the corners ever since the departure from Africa. The appearance of the American spy at the present wasn't the worst that Jekyll had seen of him but it wasn't that far off the mark. Tom's posture was slacking, his eyes were red, puffy, and slightly dilated from the alcohol he consumed last night (which he had determined from the boy's breath), and his overall appearance had changed from the casual American to the stereotypical disheveled and unkempt American, something that was so unlike the Thomas Sawyer that they all knew.

The younger gave Jekyll a look through his blurry eyes at the comment he made. Jekyll had never spoken to him much, and whenever he did, it was always on an irritatingly personal level. But perhaps it was just the doctor in him, who in Sawyer's opinion overreacted too often. He didn't want or need a mother at this point in his life.

"Even if I was, why should it matter to you?" Sawyer said, annoyed. "I'm twenty-one, not a kid ya'll keep fawnin' over."

"I know that, Tom. I'm a doctor. I just—

"You're just worried that I'm on the destructive path to drinkin' myself to death in attempts to drown my sorrows and anxieties from recent events as Nemo and Skinner would put it. Thank ya kindly for the consideration but I just like breathin' too much to drink myself into a coma like old man Jenkins. I'll see ya at breakfast."

Before Jekyll could edge a word into Tom's monotonous slurred speech, the door was closed again and Jekyll was back at square one. He sighed, pressed a hand to his temple, and retreated down the hallway. _–Always putting your nose into business that isn't yours, Henry—_

"Shut up, Edward!" Jekyll hissed.

Sawyer listened to Jekyll's footsteps until he could no longer hear them before he changed into some fresh clothes and washed the stale taste out of his mouth. As he was buttoning the vest, Sawyer's gaze fell upon the mirror. The man staring back at him was not the brave Tom Sawyer that left America, he was not the eager man that had befriended the headstrong Allan Quatermain among the other extraordinary persons in the so called League…nor the man that Huck Finn had called his 'brother in arms,' not anymore.

His breathe caught in his throat at the memory of Huck. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but his stubborn nature pushed them back. No matter how much he tried not to cry for Huck, it was impossible when he saw the light fade from his brown eyes over and over again in his dreams. Sawyer's trembling fist came down hard on the dresser in front of him while he shut his eyes tightly in attempts to push the memories away.

He could see those eyes, those god-damned eyes, of the younger agent grow distant and cold, the skin go gray and pale, could see the head fall backwards as the muscles in the dying body he held loosened, and felt the blood that had been pouring out of it ease. _The heat from the burning building around him was singing his skin as he stubbornly clung onto the body of his brother, looking for a way out…finding only an opening small enough for one person at the far end. The building he was trapped inside creaked and groaned under weak supports and Tom fervently wished that his life would end right here, that he didn't have to make the choice he did._ The same twisting in his gut returned to him on the Nautilus as he heard Huck's last words over and over in his head.

"God damn it, Huck!" he rasped. His eyes watered, but he refused to let the tears fall. He was not going to be that weak, show fear, show pain. But it was hard when you were privy to the last words a man would ever speak. It was hard not to feel scared when the people you loved were constantly being taken away from you, when you were constantly being reminded of your own mortality, that you would, one day, lie in their positions, speak your last words, take your last breath. And if you were lucky, you'd have someone with you in the end, holding you close, begging you not to go, validating your existence and impact on the world you barely knew. It hadn't been that way with Quatermain at all. Sawyer just didn't have the God damned time to realize.

"Damn it all!" he moaned as the pain in his gut grew.

Everything that the spy had wanted to say to the hunter before he died coalesced into one confusing thought. No matter what he said that day, Quatermain hadn't heard him because he was already dead. He ran out on Sawyer, slapping him in the face with cold harsh reality instead of the warm fatherly affection that he finally acknowledged he had needed from Allan. He hadn't felt such a strong sense of loneliness in a long time since then, if that was what was causing this searing pain that kept him firmly rooted in the present. One hand clenched desperately around his middle to ease it but nothing worked.

Hangovers were a bitch, but this wasn't the result of one of his worst. The scariest part was that he didn't know what was happening, and couldn't stop it. Attempting to stand straight wasn't helping and neither was bending over. Quite literally, Tom couldn't move, hardly breathe.

And this wasn't the first time in his life that his own body immobilized him—

_ —Sawyer was inches away from grabbing a hold of Skinner to help him out of the burning room. Skinner reached out quicker than what Sawyer expected with those burns. It only made sense when the other invisible man snuck up behind him and pressed a knife to his throat. He froze in his confusion. He couldn't react, but only remember the last time a knife was pressed against him with malicious intent. He couldn't think. He could only allow the man from behind him to force him up with a push from the blade. Yanking loose a small involuntary whimper from Tom's buried memories, the man grabbed a hold of his arm with the other hand and made Tom put one foot in front of the other, away from Skinner, away from any semblance of control—_

—_The air was thick. Foreign flesh pressed into his own, dirt slipping between every crevasse of his exposed skin as he was pushed across the ground, and subsequently pulled back. The pain was suffocating, worse than the initial humiliation. Men jeered and breathed in his ear. He couldn't scream. He was alone—_

He gasped aloud from a sudden spasm, and for the first time in a while, Sawyer felt fear, fear that was beginning to eat away at his insides. Old memories that had long stayed dormant in his mind suddenly rushed through his head. He couldn't catch his breath, couldn't see clearly, couldn't survive the pain that just kept building in his body. The scariest part of it all was that he was vaguely aware that he was doing this to himself, but could do nothing to stop it.

Then, his door opened. Skinner appeared, most likely doing Jekyll's biding to drag him out of his room for breakfast…it had been at least twenty minutes or so since his visit this morning.

"Was goin'a knock but—What's wrong?—"

Sawyer turned his wild eyes at Skinner in a brief moment of clarity and ground out the only words he could against the pain. "Get. Jekyll."

Thankfully, Skinner took off at a run, leaving Tom behind as the memories continued and another spasm set loose a rough cry of pain from his throat.

* * *

Jekyll sighed as he watched the retreating form of Skinner jog down the hallway toward Sawyer's room. Two servants closed the double ornate doors and sealed the captain, the vampire, and the doctor inside, waiting for their youngest before commencing the first meal.

"What is your opinion of Agent Sawyer, Dr. Jekyll?"

Henry looked up, surprised at Nemo's sudden question._—He's a brat, Henry, and you know it—_He glanced over to Mina who had her attention fixed to him as well, waiting for an answer._—Admit it!—_Nervously, Henry cleared his throat.

"You mean since Africa?"

Nemo nodded.

"I'm not sure. Tom never has been one for showing his emotions freely."

"The life of a spy," Mina offered.

Henry smiled. "I can't say that he's gotten over Allan's death, if that is what you are inquiring about…"

"It is just an observation I have that as of late the young agent has been rather moody," the captain elaborated.

_—Understatement of the century-He's a child!—_

"We've all noticed it," Mina said.

"You must understand," Henry elaborated, ignoring Edward. "That the human mind is a delicate muscle. When strained, it may take a long time to recover."

"What kind of strain are you talking about?"

"Guilt, grief."

"Ah, you speak of the soul. But what kind of guilt are you referring to?" Nemo asked.

"Isn't it obvious?" Jekyll asked, confused. "Tom blames himself for Allan's death."

None of them had actually spoken about it, but now that it was finally out in the open, the air somehow seemed a little lighter. Strangely enough, Skinner hadn't mentioned a word about Quatermain to Sawyer. And stranger yet, the invisible man seemed to be looking out for the boy, always voicing his opinions as far as Sawyer's well-being was concerned. Henry had to smile at that briefly, considering the irony to which the old hunter had always regarded the invisible man with barely controlled disdain.

"But I thought…" Mina started.

Jekyll sighed. "He hasn't talked about what happened since we left Mongolia. Am I correct in assuming that I was the only one he spoke to about it?"

A pause followed.

"It would seem so," Mina said, letting her head drop.

Henry gently took hold of her hand that lay on the arm of her chair, drawing her attention, suddenly unaware of anyone else in the room. "Let's not pass the bottle around."

Their eyes locked, and for a tense moment, it seemed as if Mina would say something, but she remained silent. Abruptly, he took his hand away and broke eye contact, suddenly embarrassed at his open display of affection. _–She doesn't need your cold methods, Henry. She wants—_

One of the ornate doors burst open loudly, quickly drawing the attention of the dining room's three occupants. Rodney Skinner slid to a stop just inside the door, breathless as he spoke. "Henry—the kid's in a bad way!"

No one moved for a split second, but once Jekyll sprung up from the table, fearing the worst, everyone followed suit. "Get the bag from my room, Skinner, hurry!"

Henry ran down the hallway, closely followed by Mina and Nemo. _–He's dead. Probably shot himself after all this time— _

"Enough, Edward!" he hissed as he ran. "Leave the doctoring to me." After a stairwell and a few right and left turns, Jekyll found Tom's door wide open. Before he entered he held up a hand at Nemo and Mina who caught up, ensuring he would be the only one to approach the spy. Jekyll then entered the room and crossed over to Tom who was bent over the bureau, sweating profusely, and shaking.

"Tom?"

Sawyer clenched his jaw in response, making an odd sound in his throat, turning agonized eyes to Henry. Henry's voice caught in his throat for a minute when he realized how much pain Tom was in. He glanced back towards the door, seeing Nemo and Mina at a distance but neither seeing nor hearing any sign of Skinner. Whipping his head back when Tom made another noise in his throat, Henry laid a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. He gasped, and Henry took his hand back.

"Tom, are you injured?"

Slowly, but with much effort, the spy shook his head. Henry felt his brow crease.

"Where does it hurt?"

"—can't—" Tom's form started to shake more violently.

Jekyll tried to steady him, but suddenly the American lost his balance and started falling. Henry caught him awkwardly and tried to lay him straight on the floor but Tom curled himself into a near fetal position, arms around his abdomen, moaning. By this time Nemo and Mina were on the floor by the spy's side.

"Doctor," Nemo questioned.

"There must be some internal injury. I don't see a thing." Hastily he probed what he could of Tom's abdomen, with the boy's arms in the way, cautiously pressing against the clothed muscle for any hint of irregularity. "God forbid that his appendix ruptured."

"—didn't—"

"What?" Mina said softly to the young man.

"—took it out—when I was a kid—" Abruptly Sawyer let out a loud cry as the muscle in his abdomen twisted again. "—you—know—that—Aunt Polly…"

Jekyll, Mina, and Nemo all looked to each other in confusion. Skinner finally flew into the room, dropping the bag at the doctor's feet and kneeling by Tom's side, laying a hand on his shoulder. "It'll be alright, kid," he said, giving Jekyll a pointed stare…rather glare from what it felt like. _–Wipe it off his invisible face!—_

Despite the sentiment, Sawyer tensed and his eyes clouded over.

"Tom, can you hear me?" Henry called. "Do you know where you are?"

The fear intensified on his face, and the young spy started to weakly gasp for breath. "—River—no…no."

"Tom, you're with us on the Nautilus. You're with the League—"

Involuntarily, different parts of his body started to jolt from lack oxygen. Fearing a seizure, Henry cursed and tried to prize Sawyers arms away from his stomach so he could do himself no harm. Surprisingly, the American put up quite a fight.

"Breathe, Tom," Jekyll shouted, nearly panicking at the American's unfocused eyes. "Damn it, Breathe!"

"Move aside!" Nemo declared, successful in pulling Sawyer's arms away from his stomach.

Sawyer, in response, cried out at the abrupt stretch in his muscles and kicked out, nearly missing Skinner's head.

"Hold him," Nemo commanded.

Jekyll complied warily, taking hold of the spy's arms as Skinner, thoughtfully, took hold of the American's legs. Mina crouched stoically by the boy's head, brushing his damp hair with her hands, murmuring words of comfort as his face contorted more into fear than that of pain. Henry watched as Nemo felt his stomach and decidedly pulled Tom's shirt out of his pants, exposing his abdomen. _–Sadist!—_The young agent hissed and his breath hitched again, mumbling a barely audible word over and over again in his delirium: stop.

"Nemo," Jekyll asked. "What are you doing?"

"Something that will ease the boy's pain."

As soon as Nemo's hands touched Sawyer's bare skin, the young agent flinched and gasped, trying to wrestle away, mumbling an array of words; please, no, don't, and God. He gave Jekyll and Skinner a run for their money with his newfound strength, but Nemo's persistent kneading of the boy's abdominal muscles finally started to ease his pain. Mina was the only one to notice two small tears that leaked out of the boy's eyes, and quickly brushed them away.

"Tom," she whispered. "Tom, you must calm down. You're with the League. We're in London. You are in your room. We are with you, the only ones with you."

The adrenaline rush died and eventually Tom stopped fighting those who were restraining him. Somehow, in his confusion, he realized that he was not experiencing what he was seeing, that these people were not trying to harm him. The hands on his stomach disappeared. And Sawyer blearily looked up into the face of a man he was trying to place the name of. He said, "Calm down, now. Rest. You are safe." And that was all that Tom could remember before the black void of exhaustion finally did take him, once more.

Jekyll cast a thankful glance at Nemo who pulled the spy's shirt back to its rightful place. "What did you do?"

"A simple technique that relaxes the abdominal muscles in the event of a strain."

Mina didn't seem convinced, so the Captain elaborated.

"I am not immune to the pains of a mortal body, Mrs. Harker."

"I'm sorry," she conceded.

"Will someone help me get him into bed?" Jekyll asked.

Skinner grabbed the boy's legs as Jekyll lifted him from under his arms, taking care to not wake the American. Once he was settled, Mina crossed over to the bed and moved to take off Tom's shoes. Henry found a clean cloth from his bag, wet it, and cleared away the sweat that accumulated on Sawyer's face and neck. Afterwards, Jekyll felt for his temperature and took his pulse, relieved that the boy was finally beginning to regain a normal breathing pattern.

"Jekyll," Skinner said, when all was said and done. "What's wrong wiv' 'im?"

Nervously, Henry motioned for the League to follow him out the door. Closing it softly behind him he steeled himself for the conclusion that he'd been trying to avoid, for all of their sakes. "Thank God it not appendicitis, that would have been a death sentence…but I didn't consider that his grief would build to this."

"To what?" Skinner asked.

"A nervous breakdown."

A slight pause followed where no one spoke. It had been hard for Jekyll to force the words out of it mouth. Somehow it seemed like a condemnation.

"Quatermain?" Mina considered.

"Well it ain't no secret how much the kid idolized the old man. The kid's had nightmares before. Did 'e ever stop?"

"I assumed so but I'm afraid to say that I may have been wrong…If I'd known it would have come to this I would have—"

"Don't pass the bottle, Henry," Mina said softly. "What can be done to aid Tom?"

"He'll need bed rest for the remainder of the day," Henry surmised. "Perhaps through the night, depending on how adamant he is about resting when he wakes."

"Sharod," Nemo called over his shoulder. One of Nemo's men sprinted down the hall and came to a stop next to Henry. "Have Agent Sawyer's meals taken to his room for today."

"Nothing heavy, though," Jekyll added.

The man nodded and turned to head in the directions of the kitchens.

"So now we play the waitin' game, eh?" Skinner nudged.

"With all the energy that he's spent I'd say he'll be out for at least a few hours."

"Perhaps," Nemo suggested. "It would be best if we convene over a light brunch. We have yet to decide our plans for this evening, and in light of recent events I believe we have been postponing a discussion of Agent Sawyer's condition for quite some time."

"Don' see nothin' wrong wiv 'at, as long as there's a bit a brandy involved."

Nemo smiled, slightly. "Come then. Doctor?"

"I'll be along in a minute." With that, Jekyll turned his back and walked in the opposite direction until he could turn a corner. Mina sighed and laid a hand on Nemo's arm, whispering that she would be along with Henry momentarily. Nemo nodded, resolving that their first actual meal may have to wait until lunch with all that had happened. Both the captain and the invisible man started in the direction of the dining room after Mina spun on her heel down the hall after Jekyll.

"Well, punctuality ain't never been our thing now, has it?" Skinner said.

"Europeans," the captain whispered, almost too soft for the invisible man's ears.

"Ain't I been sayin' there was somethin' wrong wiv the kid before this happened?"

"You may have Mr. Skinner, but I would postulate that we were all too proud to listen."

"We're still the League, right? Sans two members, we still do a bloody good job o keepin' the peace. Holmes ain't given us a break since we signed on wiv' im. And we done pretty well for ourselves. So well, that Holmes is furnishin' a headquar'ers jus for us—one where he can always find us if the world needs its bloody heroes."

"I can assure you I do not intend on leaving my ship, League or not," Nemo said, hard and steeled determination in his eyes as the two began to descend a set of stairs.

"An' that's a captain wurf followin'," Skinner said to himself, hiding a smile.

* * *

Henry listened for a moment, and nearly groaned aloud when he heard the sole heels of Mina approaching. _–Better make up your mind, Henry, Or I will!—_ Jekyll growled. "Shut up-Shut up-Shut up!"

"Henry?"

Jekyll sighed, but refused to look at Mina, frustrated and tired of Edward's side comments. Even now the man could hear the creature's voice, taunting him.

"It's nothing," he whispered. Mina arched an eyebrow and made no signs of moving from her spot. Henry relented with one word, "Edward."

"What does he say?"

Henry smiled, bitterly. "The truth…t-that I'm losing my f-focus."

"You know that isn't true—"

"Isn't it? I had no control of the situation in Tom's room—we almost lost h-him—"

"But we did _not_, Henry. If it were not for your instincts as a doctor—"

"You mean Nemo's?" His accusation was met with a sharp glare and hand in front of his face, pleading for his silence.

"No. Stop punishing yourself, Henry. Tom is very much alive thanks to _both_ you and Nemo's expertise. You are an asset to us just as you have always been, and Hyde is as he has always been, your darkness. We are who we are and that cannot be changed, you know this."

"Such is the curse that we both live with."

Mina humbled at that and held Henry's gaze, suddenly content to sit for however longer was needed, however long it would take for Edward to calm. It hadn't always been this way. Hyde intimidated her at first, and for the longest time she had associated Jekyll with the creature inside of him. But when she noticed his overly cautious mannerisms, she respected him, respected his control.

"We are not so d-different, you and I," Jekyll said, quietly. "A vampire and a…monster."

And with that respect came admiration. She admired the man for having the courage to stand up to someone the likes of Hyde. It was remarkable that someone as bright as Henry had someone equally as dark as Edward and that both could somehow coexist. Her vampirism was nearly the same, always craving the hunt, lusting after the scent of blood on the wind, and just as incriminating.

"No," Mina said, comfortably with a small smile. "Not so different at all."

* * *

**And that's chapter two. Thanks to my reviewers! I didn't expect to get much feedback from a story like this so your comments are GREATLY appreciated :)**

**I do try to stay within one character's perspective at a time, but sometimes I just can't help myself and start veering into another. Annoying? Didn't notice?**

**I also try to make it a point in what stories I write to stay as consistently to character as possible, so do let me know if you think the characters might be going a bit too OC. Also, still struggling a little bit with how to write a cockney accent :/ So, sorry if it seems a bit awkward at times. Let me know what you guys think!**

**-Rainsaber**


	3. Aches and Pains

**Chapter Three**—Aches and Pains

Tom woke to the sound of a turning page. He tensed, but relaxed when he realized that he was in a bed, covered up and comfortable. Slowly, and with effort, his blue eyes fluttered open. He recognized that ceiling…and the intricate molding on the wall. A book closed and Tom looked over to his right side where he heard it snap shut.

"Jekyll?" he whispered.

"Tom," the doctor said in return. "Do you know where you are?"

"…the Nautilus?"

Henry smiled, bringing his chair closer to the bed. "Quite so. How do you feel?"

Tom wet his lips and quickly took stock of himself. "Exhausted. What happened?"

"You mean you don't remember?"

Tom stared for a minute, trying to recollect his thoughts and bearings. Why was Jekyll in his room? Why was he tucked in his bed? How had he gotten here? Where were his guns? What was the last thing he remembered? He pondered all of these questions as he tried to raise himself into a sitting position. Before Henry could protest, Tom felt why he had been lying down.

Sawyer let out a hiss of pain as he crumpled back onto his pillows, instinctively reaching to grab at the soreness that erupted from his abdomen. Frowning when he found no bandage or physical injury he turned to the doctor with confusion in his eyes. Henry laid his book on the side table and retrieved a glass of water that he ordered Tom to drain, and he did so without arguing.

"What is the last thing you remember, Tom?"

"…Lookin' at my reflection in the mirror."

"…Then, nothing?"

The spy shook his head, trying to guess from the doctor's looks the most logical situation. He was trying to keep himself from fidgeting, but for some reason Tom got the impression that Hyde was silent, and that it was purely Jekyll's nervousness that he was observing. He was deciding on words, not trying to search for them while someone else demanded his attention.

"You had a fit, Tom."

The boy's eyes widened and glazed over, uncomprehending. Whatever Sawyer had been expecting, it was not that. But how the hell did that explain his abdomen?

"A what?" he said, quietly.

"A panic attack, to be more precise," Jekyll said.

Sawyer laughed, thinking the doctor was pulling his leg. He hadn't ever reacted that badly…not since his run in with Injun Joe—and _that_ couldn't even be considered a fit because Tom was the type who always kept it together when it counted. But taking another look at Jekyll's face told Tom the harsh truth, and wiped the smile clean off. "You can't be serious…"

"I'm afraid I am. You didn't come to breakfast so Skinner had gone to your room to fetch you."

"How bad was it?"

"You were incoherent and in a great deal of pain. It would seem that whatever emotional pain that you were experiencing was manifesting itself into your abdominal muscles. I feared for a moment that your appendix had ruptured but—"

"Got that taken out when I was a kid."

"And you told us that, as if we should have known…as if we were your aunt."

Tom just stared at Henry, truly at a loss for words. He had really lost it if he confused the League for his Aunt Polly. But why would he make that association?

"If I may, Tom?" the doctor interjected, though he waited for the gentle nod of the spy's head to continue. "Was she your guardian?"

Tom stiffened a little at the inquiry. Any knowledge about his childhood was off limits to everyone…except Quatermain when he divulged the existence of his dead partner. And even then Tom hadn't given up much to the old hunter. What made Jekyll any different? The time. Sawyer had spent more time with the remaining members of the League and grew to trust them more than he did in the beginning. Among all of them he trusted Skinner the most…which was in itself ironic, but Jekyll was different. Hyde was always a threat, moreso in the beginning when Jekyll only relied on himself among a group full of strangers. In the recent months some of that had changed.

The doctor seemed more at ease with the others, often depending on them to drown out Hyde's tantrums. It was strange, that a man with such problems as his own was so selfless when it came to patching someone up. He cared…and Tom supposed that was the core issue that kept him from speaking. It was something he wasn't used to, not since Huck, and not since Allan. He wasn't used to someone going out of their way for him anymore.

"She took me in when my parents died," the spy finally said.

"Were you close with her?"

"She was my aunt, why does that matter?"

Jekyll sighed, uncomfortable with the territory that he was entering. As a doctor he knew what would be best for the young American's well-being, but as a friend he was oblivious to how Sawyer would react. The young man was lucid, and that was a good sign. But it was painfully clear to himself and the rest of the League what the events of the Fantom had done in the long run…and what they could do to the young spy if he didn't make the proposition now. None of the League were certainly happy about it, but it was for the best.

* * *

_ "He's fragile, Henry," Mina stated._

_ "Oh and you're a perfect example of normal, eh Mina?" Skinner retorted._

_ She audibly growled in Skinner's direction. "I am speaking of Tom's—"_

_ "Weaknesses, right? Ain't we all got 'em? What makes 'im so diff'rent from us?"_

_ "Experience, Mr. Skinner, age and maturity," the captain said gravely._

_ Skinner grunted in frustration and started pacing the carpeted floor of the captain's library. Jekyll sighed and tried to approach the floating jacket._

_ "Rodney, we all know how fond of the boy you are—"_

_ "What? It's jus me then?" Henry stilled himself as he felt the invisible man inches from his face. Hyde raged inside, violently threatening to beat him and his coat to a ragged and bloody pulp. "Go on! Deny it! Say Sawyer ain't a valuable part a' the team. Say he ain't pullin 'is fair share o' the weight. Say Tom doesn't matter! Say it!"_

_ One look at the dangerous glare in Jekyll's eye was enough to spring Nemo from his seat by the crackling fire. "Calm yourself, Mr. Skinner! I will not permit this discussion to continue in this manner. Do you need a moment, doctor?"_

_ "I am in control," Henry said, quietly._

_ "I want no part in 'nis," Skinner said before turning about._

_ "Then you leave us?" Mina jabbed._

_ Angrily, Skinner spun around, planting his feet inches away from the door. "I leave when the loyalties change, when the cards been diced wrong!"_

_ "How have we done that, Rodney?" Jekyll nearly shouted. "We are only speaking of what may be best for Tom's well-being."_

_ "Oh, and jus because you're the doctor, because you're the educated one, makes you the brains behin' it all, right? Well, let me tell you somethin'," Skinner said between teeth, walking back to Jekyll. "I ain't no doctor, but I know what us leavin' the kid is gonna do to 'im and I don' like it. Ain't it obvious how much we mean to the kid after Allan's death? His only connection to the old boy is _us_!"_

_ "That is precisely the issue! Do you not see it? Our very existence in Tom's life is a reminder of that death. We are a physical manifestation of that memory, of what the League used to be."_

_ "So what, we ain't the League anymore?"_

_ "No. _We_ are still the League, but to _Tom_, we are only what he remembers because of Allan. We've been facilitating his grief since the beginning, by allowing him to stay, by continuing to work and function as the League, by going after the unfinished business that escaped from Mongolia!"_

_ Skinner was silent. Henry breathed while Edward was seething. Nemo was still standing, but Mina had not moved since she sat down by the fire since the beginning of their discussion. No one spoke for some time. What had been said was the truth._

_ "Sawyer's made outta thicker skin nan what you're sayin'," Skinner hissed._

_ "The fact remains that something has to be done," Mina interjected. "Tom's condition has worsened over these past three months and it is clear that our presence is doing nothing to better it."_

_ "Perhaps," the captain ventured. "It would be best to allow the boy a familiar comfort?"_

_ "What are you suggesting?" Henry asked._

_ Nemo's façade softened as he uttered two words, two words that silenced the rest of the League and unified their concern and eventual reluctant agreement on the matter._

* * *

"We are not exactly a normal family of sorts, Tom," Henry began, nearly stuttering. "We're different."

Sawyer's eyes narrowed, his danger senses kicking up at the doctor's hesitance. "What the hell are you trying to say?"

"I was speaking with Nemo whilst you were asleep, with the League rather. We wonder if it may be better for you, for your health, if we…take you back to America…to your home."

Tom's mouth parted in surprise and he blinked dumbly. A sinking feeling made him nauseous, forcing him to look away. Thankfully, his hair hid his eyes that started to water against his will. But he was certain that the slight tremble in his chin didn't go unnoticed before he tightened his jaw.

"Tom—"

"So that's it? It was all for nothing then? The scientists?"

"We're not discounting any of your work, Tom. We're only concerned for your health and recovery. We can leave tomorrow if necessary."

Sawyer turned angry eyes back to Henry. "And what's goin' back to the Secret Service gonna do for me? They'll tan my hide for goin' AWOL and stick me behind a desk for the rest of my life if I'm not pinned as a traitor first."

"It would not have to be that way. I'm quite sure that Mycroft would be more than happy to speak to the American government about your involvement with us over the past few months."

"My involvement?"

"Your valuable aide as a spy. Your government would be foolish to waste a talent such as yours, Tom."

Wasn't that was the League was doing to Tom? He sure as hell felt that way. He felt like one of them, and here he was getting the boot for all of it. But wouldn't he have been a fool for not expecting it? He was used to being turned out on his backside. The same had happened back in Missouri many times. Aunt Polly kicked his ass out many a night, and every time he retreated to the childhood island that he and Huck had frequented.

And it took serious gut to brave those woods after what happened to him when he was young. Some nights he couldn't sleep because he was so scared of the darkness and the sounds in the night, fearing that Harding would make good on his word and come after him. When Huck eventually came after him because of the government job he had landed, offering Tom one of his own, it was the light at the end of the tunnel, a promise of something better, loyalty, brotherhood, and a sense of security with his own independence. What did he have if the League threw him out now?

"Didn't know ya'll were so keen on turnin' me loose," Tom managed, forcing the sting of betrayal down. He should have expected this. "Leave tomorrow, by all means if that's how ya feel."

"Tom—"

"Now, I'm tired. I'd like some rest 'fore I start the trek back to Washington." Stubbornly he turned his head away from the doctor, unable to stomach the man's presence any longer.

Jekyll sighed, knowing that his message had somehow not gotten through to the young American. "Tom, listen to me. This decision was not made lightly and none of us are comfortable with it, but it was only done because we want to help you, as friends."

"Let's get one damn thing straight. I was doing right fine 'fore I joined this crew. The only reason why I helped out at Dorian's was my dying partner made me promise to finish what we started when the Fantom killed him dead. Seein' as how that business ain't finished with these four men lolligaggin' round London, I don't see a reason why I need to—"

"Tom this is not about you, this is about you're refusing to address about Allan's—"

"Don't say his name!" he yelled. "I don't wanna hear it! Not from you, not from anyone on this ship, not anymore. He's dead so leave the dead be!"

"You won't admit that he's the reason for your mental collapse?" Henry calmly challenged.

Tom's eyes widened. "I'm not crazy!"

"I know that, Tom! But there's a difference between insanity and instability."

"I get it—one step before the other—"

"Tom, that is _not_ what I mean! For God's sake, just consider the notion for one moment, for your own health! _Nothing_ would pain us more to know that you suffer whilst we stand by, unable to do a thing."

Tom was tired of arguing. He knew that something was going to be coming from the League soon, but had no idea it would be something like this. Just one more thing to add to the list in Sawyer's mind, and it was tiring. He couldn't handle all of it all at once.

"I need to rest," he said, knowing the exact reaction it would get out of the doctor.

Jekyll sighed. "Alright, I'll leave." Somberly, he rose out of the seat, grabbing his bag as he went to the door. Before he proceeded into the hall, he turned back to look at the damage that he had done to the young spy. It pricked his heart particularly hard to know that nothing he could possibly say could rectify the matter at the moment. He'd had his own reservations about bringing it up so soon, and right now he wished he'd listened to his gut.

"Nemo gave orders for your meals to be sent to your room for the remainder of the day. I wouldn't suggest trying to get out of bed until after supper. I'll stop by sometime tonight to see how you're fairing. If you need anything, Nemo has a man stationed outside the door."

Tom remained impassive. Jekyll almost left, but couldn't leave the spy so despondent. It was times like this that made Henry thankful that he hadn't married and procured children. He'd probably have made a much worse mess of them than he had with his patients.

"I am sorry, Tom. I didn't mean to imply that you don't have a choice in the matter. We were only thinking of your well-being."

And with that, the doctor finally left Tom to the peaceful privacy of his room. But even with the door closed, Tom didn't relax, didn't let down his façade. He was being watched.

"You too, Skinner," Tom said.

The invisible man let out a chuckle, somewhere near his dresser. "How'd you know? You're getting' better at that—"

"Not in the mood. Out."

"Alright, alright. I'm goin'. Jus lemme say one thing first."

Tom didn't respond, so Skinner took that in stride.

"I didn' agree wiv' em you know. I was against the whole thing from the start."

"Lot'a good that does me now…thanks."

Suddenly, Tom felt pressure on his shoulder. "Iv you need to talk, just let me know," Skinner whispered. "You're a good kid."

Tom shut his eyes, and successfully quelled a shudder, remembering all the few times he had heard those words in his life. He heard Skinner walking away from his bed, towards the door. He opened it, and just like Jekyll, gave him advice to rest before closing it behind him. When Sawyer was finally alone, he sank back into the pillows of his bed and blew out a frustrated breath. His eyes watered, stung at the betrayal he felt. All of a sudden, he was alone in the world, again. Where else could he go now but home to Missouri? But his heart wouldn't really let him do that, both for fear of the land itself and for how he left his Aunt Polly in the first place.

* * *

_"You're really leavin' Missouri?" his aunt asked, disappointment apparent._

_ Tom threw a pair of socks into his bag and stopped in the middle of packing. Huck was waiting outside and he couldn't put it off any longer, no matter how much his aunt wanted to prolong his departure. "We've been through this Aunt Polly. I have to go!"_

_ "Well, what do they need ya for in Washington DC? Why can't ya just do your work here? Here's your home, what ya know best. They got people workin' for the government here—"_

_ Tom turned hard eyes to his aunt as he deposited one bag on the floor near the door. "Don't start this again. You know I have to go and I'm goin'."_

_ "But you ain't gonna come back? Not even for a visit?"_

_ "Aunt Polly I can't come back here if I'm workin' can I?"_

_ "Well I don't see why ya have to relocate your whole life! Can't ya take vacations and come down on the weekends—"_

_ "No," Tom yelled. He was fed up with his aunt goading him into staying. She'd given him countless lectures about making something of himself and here he was doing just that and here she was going back on everything she taught him. Huck was about to save him from this town and she couldn't understand that a change of scenery would do him good. Hell, he might even forget some of the last few years that were particularly bad on him when he laid eyes on the sight of the white house, on the one place in the entire country where security felt like a real occupation. "I ain't comin' back here! Not ever!"_

_ "Don't you raise your voice at me Thomas," his aunt yelled back at him, tears nearly falling from her glossy eyes. "Now I know I raised ya better than that!"_

_ Tom took a second to breathe. His aunt was shaking his resolve, and he didn't like it because if he stayed any longer, he knew that he'd never leave. And he needed to, for his own sanity. Tom took a deep breath, words already in his head, as he shouldered a traveling pack and turned to face his aunt one last time. _

_ "Thank ya kindly for everythin' you done by me, Aunt Polly. I'm a better man cause of it, cause of you. Maybe one day ya'll know why I cant stay here anymore."_

_ He picked up the bag that he placed by the door and made to brush past her, but she sidestepped in front of his path. Tom was certain he'd never forget the sight of her in that moment, hands clasped in front with worry, eyes pleading for words she wanted to hear. He very nearly gave up and dropped his bags then, letting loose the real reason why he couldn't stay. He wanted someone to know, someone to care…but she just wanted him to stay for her sake. And as heart-breaking as it was, Tom knew that she wouldn't understand. _

_ "Thomas," she pleaded._

_ Tom took in a shuddering breath, blinking back the water that started to form in his eyes and brushed past her on his way down the stairs. Behind him he could hear his aunt calling his name, demanding an answer. Though the tears now freely fell from his eyes he didn't dare look back as he exited the house. Her footfalls ceased on the porch and Huck called his name, trying to catch up to him as he firmly planted one foot in front of the other._

_ "Thomas! Tom!"_

_ "Tom wait up!"_

_ "TOM!"_

_

* * *

_

The Nautilus shifted. And the pain in Tom's gut started to return. The tears started on their own and no matter how hard he tried, they refused to stop. Gradually the pain lessened as he let a few sobs loose. But the despair grew when he realized he had nowhere to go and feel safe if Harding truly was alive, if his mind wasn't playing tricks on him. If he went back to his Aunt Polly she'd get killed in the crossfire, used against Tom in the worst way possible. And the same could be said of the League. If someone was willing to come after you after so many years had passed, they'd stop at nothing until they got what they wanted, especially someone like Richard Harding.

Tom couldn't go back to America, and he certainly couldn't stay here in England. So where could the poor boy go that was familiar and remote? He choked on another sob when he realized the answer. Though it would kill him to see African soil again, the more and more he thought about it, the more he realized he had no choice when the lives of his remaining family, biological and not, were at stake. He'd disappear into the depths of the Third World if that's what it took to keep his nightmares locked away.

* * *

Under the moonlight that shone through an abandoned warehouse, an experiment was taking place. A man was strapped down to a table. He struggled to be free, shouting curses at the other three scientists who he felt had cheated him. Then one of the scientists injected him with an amber liquid. In minutes, the man was screaming as his body deformed and changed. The other three scientists cowered back when the transmutation became more intense, but Richard Harding stood his ground with cool indifference. His plan was progressing smoothly. And now that he'd let the boy see him the next stage had to be set.

He may just be a memory to the boy now, but tomorrow he'd make damn sure that Thomas Sawyer had no doubt in his mind of the man's existence. And maybe he'd get to exact a little bit of revenge on the League for Moriarty's part…but that could wait. The man had his uses, but in the end, just like these scientists and these test subjects, they were all expendable when it came to getting what he really wanted. Harding had waited ten years for the Sawyer boy and he'd be damned if he was going to wait any longer. He wasn't under the shelter of the American government anymore. He was out in the open, vulnerable, ripe for the taking once more. And the results of this experiment depended greatly on his next move in drawing the League closer to him and closer to what he so desperately needed. The screams continued.

* * *

**So I decided to post early...AND I'll be posting another chapter shortly...just because I'm getting tired of waiting for each week to get the chapters that ARE done up. I'm kind of itching to revise the rest just so I can move forward with the story. So for right now, 2 chapters this week. **

**And the bastard finally makes an appearance. Ok, so I'm trying to make Richard Harding more than just your typical villain hell bent on causing pain and destruction. I know the end of the chapter doesn't say much, but this early on I figured I didn't need to, plus he's not coming in again until chapter 5. I'm interested in knowing what intrigues you guys about villains? What keeps your attention, but at the same time makes you want to punch the living daylights out of him? **

**Thanks again to my reviewers :) You guys make this story worth continuing. And I really do value all your input! Criticize away!**

**-Rainsaber**


	4. Impressions

**Chapter Four**—Impressions

In the solitude of his personal study, Captain Nemo perused a weather-beaten leather-bound journal from the comfort of his desk. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, at one of his servants as he poured the captain a cup of tea. The young man left the pot on the desk and moved over to stoke the dying fire before leaving. Nemo observed the youth and how the embers danced across the smooth and unscarred features, pondering on the similarities between this boy and the youngest member of his current occupation. Slowly, the fire grew stronger and once the youth was satisfied he turned and bowed to the captain who nodded in turn. When Nemo was left alone his gaze turned back to the last written page in the African journal, a page that had been read countless times…

_There is no doubt in my mind that this will be the last page I will ever write in this journal. It is often said, in Africa, that the hunted has a vague sense of its end nearing, and that in their last moment a culmination of their life's experiences pass before their eyes, these images still present after death for a period of time. I have done nothing but remember my past since joining this League of Extraordinary people…quite extraordinary indeed. _

_ The stories of my exploits will, no doubt, survive still after my time comes. Age is my weakness, in a world that has proven to me, time and time again, that it will continue to evolve, that its youth will continue to adapt and grow stronger. I am existing in a world that is no longer mine to live in. _

_ As a taker of life, I know that my time is coming. Soon. And there is no doubt in my mind that the contents of this journal, and the others, will be divulged upon my passing. Enclosed is a letter addressed to Agent Sawyer. To whomsoever discovers this journal and its contents, ensure that the American receives this, whether he still be a part of the League or has chosen to return home. _

_ The contents of this letter are for his eyes alone, and rest assured that I will haunt whomever so glances at the contents for the rest of their bloody days…including that of a certain invisible man. _

_ Know that I have not regretted my time and involvement with this League, nor with certain individuals whom I have grown to trust…and love. May this new world continue to be served and protected by those whom it owes the world to. _

_ Allan Quatermain - Mongolia, 1899_

Nemo sighed, placed the journal on his desk and sipped from his cup of hot tea. The letter lay folded between the two last pages of the journal, and as Quatermain had requested, no one had laid eyes upon it. No one knew of the letter, save the Captain who had taken the journal out of pure interest in his grief over his fallen comrade. No one had known what to do with the adventurer's belongings, as he had no family to contact. It had been a silent decision among them to leave the room as Allan had left it, both in memory and comfort. Though to it's frequenter, time proved that it had been something worse.

He had kept the existence of the letter, to Sawyer, a secret. It was clear that the young man was in need of some sort of comfort and he had a right to whatever lay beyond those last pages. But how would that letter better Sawyer's mental state now? The captain of the Nautilus came to the conclusion that he had a decision to make in that very moment; to either return the journal to its rightful place and never speak of the letter, or to give the journal and its contents to the man that Quatermain intended it to be given to.

Resolutely, he rose to face his demons, grabbing the journal on his way out of the study. He would answer for his actions, but Agent Sawyer's condition was foremost on his mind at the present. He was no doctor, so he was ignorant of any repercussions that may transpire, but Nemo prided himself on his ability to read souls, to look into the eyes of another human being and see them for who they truly were. Instinct told him that Sawyer was ready. His mind, however, was decidedly silent.

* * *

The pain in Sawyer's abdomen had dulled to an ache, but Jekyll, ever the worrying doctor, had only recommended a short walk around the ship. It wasn't as if the young Agent couldn't get away with more than that, but it still annoyed him all the same. After the doctor's confrontation in his room, Tom couldn't say that his room was rightly appealing at the moment. His mind wandered as he walked, and he wasn't really conscious as he traipsed the hallways, so you couldn't really excuse his surprise when he found himself in front of Quatermain's old room.

Many times did Tom find himself in front of the man's old room, but he'd never ventured inside, not since the one visit he paid immediately after they returned to the Nautilus from Moriarty's fortress, to return the hunter's old rifle. He'd always laid a hand on the door and tried to open it, and had even been spotted by members of the League doing it, but he could never bring himself to open it. Everyone always turned a blind eye, gave him privacy, but he wasn't as brave as they all thought him to be in the past.

Tonight, pure curiosity tugged at his feet. The doorknob was a little dusty and creaked slightly before Tom finally had the gall to push open the door. It was dark and unnerving, but when he turned on the lights and saw the same room he remembered three months ago, he wasn't quite sure which was worse. Matilda still lay on the bed where he had so reverently placed it, the desk was still an organized mess of papers and books, and the armoire still lay partially open, where inside was a slight mess of clothes, worn and clean intermixed in the rush of their arrival at Mongolia.

Tom took a few steps into the room and smelled the musty air with closed eyes. Scents of old scotch in the corner, gunpowder from the bullets on the nightstand, and the dust of Africa from an extra pair of boots met his nose. All of these things were distinctly Allan, and it made the corners of his mouth twitch. With a heavy heart, the young American opened his watery eyes. He was alone, no matter the strength of his imagination. He briefly wondered what the old hunter would have said to him if the man had seen him in such a state…but Tom couldn't think of a thing because it was Allan's advice that he really wanted at the moment.

Sawyer was torn. Home, or the League? His friends, or his health? It was true that he'd been feeling worse lately. The relapse after Skinner's exit was enough proof. If he couldn't get a hold of himself here within the confines and comforts of the Nautilus, who was to say what would happen out in the field, if anything happened, if anything was triggered?

"I did not expect you to be up so soon, Agent Sawyer."

"Oh," Sawyer awkwardly started. He hadn't really expected the captain, so to say that he didn't jump just a little bit would be a damn right lie. Kind of embarrassing, but he tried his best to recover. "Uh-well, Jekyll seemed to-just think I was fine for a…walk."

One of Nemo's eyebrows rose. "A short one, I hope?"

"Unfortunately, yeah." Sawyer had to smile at that. Whether he liked to admit it or not, the captain sure knew a hell of a lot about everyone, maybe too much at times. But that wasn't always a bad thing, hell it saved his ass this morning, didn't it? Tom looked down at his feet, hating what he needed to say. "Look…I wannna apologize for bein' a bit out of my head this morning. I—"

Nemo frowned and felt his eyes narrow at the boy's response. "There is nothing to forgive as far as the weights of mortality are concerned. We are both human, though I do not dare to say normal. I must confess that I no longer understand the word's meaning."

Tom smiled, but not with his eyes. As passive and off-putting as the captain had been when he first met him, Sawyer learned to see the warmth beneath his cold exterior. It wasn't much, but it helped him trust the captain more, understand him. "Still. I shouldn't a gotten myself worked up that bad. Thank you, for what you did."

"You are a part of this League, Agent Sawyer. You are always welcome. How are you faring otherwise?"

"You know…I think it's just the atmosphere of bein' back in London again that's gettin' to me. I mean, it was where we all first formed as the League."

"You are correct, but I must point out the absence of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, both of whom we commissioned in Paris. Without both, we would be a much different compilation of gentlemen, _and_ woman."

"No, you're right. It's-uh…also the resting place of my partner, the one the Fantom killed."

"His passing still haunts you." This was the second time that Sawyer had spoken of his American comrade. Nemo supposed that the fact the spy was speaking of his friend at all was a testament to how far he had come since that fateful day, but part of him still worried for the boy's soul. He could see the immense weight behind the blue irises as they flicked to his face.

"Everyday," he whispered.

Pity struck a chord in the captain's heart. Despite Sawyer's young age, Nemo had the distinct feeling that they shared a kinship as far as what grievances and hardships they have had to endure. "I will admit that the passing of my first mate still haunts me. The murders of those we love are heavier than that of those whose times were nearing their end, I think."

Tom really looked at Nemo then. And for a moment he swore he saw more pain than he'd ever seen in a man's eyes pass through his aged features. Before he could stop himself, words flew from his mouth in a subdued tone. "It isn't just Ishmael that still hurts you…"

"Agent Sawyer," he said gravely, with an intensely quiet voice. "I can tell you with the utmost assurance that the death of a family is the worst pain a man can be forced to bear to the end of his days."

Tom sucked in a breath at that. He knew something of loss that was for damn sure. He'd never really had the chance to have a real family for long. _So what the hell do you really know about family, Sawyer?_ Tom knew that he'd never begin to understand what Nemo had alluded to, but it just didn't sit right with him to just let a subject go to the wind without acknowledging it.

"Jekyll tells me that I confused ya'll for my Aunt Polly this morning," he started, warily. Nemo took a breath and looked to the American to continue. "She raised me. Parents died when I was too young to remember 'em."

Nemo nodded and let silence fill the room. Inside, Tom chided himself for being so loose with his tongue. He hadn't spoken of his parents in years, much less to someone like Nemo. He trusted the captain, but this just brought that trust to a whole new level. And the crazy part was that he didn't have control over it. From what Tom gathered, as he looked to the captain, Nemo knew of it as well. Something different passed through his eyes then…respect?

"I trust," Nemo said. "That Dr. Jekyll made our concerns known to you?"

Tom took a breath. "Yeah, he did."

"Have you made a decision as of yet?"

Tom shuffled his feet and broke eye contact. He hadn't. He didn't want to. He'd hated them all, at one point, for placing this decision before him, reminding him of his own weaknesses.

"It is no matter at the present," Nemo continued. "Do know, however, that you have a choice, Agent Sawyer, and we will think nothing less of you, no matter what the decision may be."

Nemo then offered the young agent an old journal. Tom looked up at the captain questioningly.

"Mr. Quatermain intended for you to read the letter between the last two pages."

With the book firmly in his hand, Tom's mouth dropped open. For a few seconds he didn't know what to say. He looked down and racked his brain but could find no memory of the book. _This was Allan's journal_. A myriad of emotions ran across his face, and Sawyer didn't bother stopping them.

"I apologize, but I did not want the presence of this to hinder you anymore than the League has." Having thought of nothing more to say, Nemo turned to exit the room, partially bracing for the young man's anger that he knew he had deserved. But the anger didn't come.

"Thank you," Tom had whispered.

Instead, there was forgiveness and gratitude. Allowing himself a small smile, Nemo slowly walked out the door, down the hall, and back to his own quarters, knowing instinctively that the American needed to be alone.

* * *

In a daze, Tom managed to shut the lights in Allan's room and close the door, journal in hand. Outside he took a deep breath, suddenly unable to stand in the hunter's room any longer. Annoyingly, the abdominal pain began to creep back, and he knew that he'd been pushing his luck being upright for this long. He made it about half way back to his room before having to use the wall for support, and being the stubborn American that he was, he had every evasive maneuver prepared in his head to refuse help, should it come his way.

But when he stumbled, over his own two God damned feet, lost his balance for a second, and found Mina holding him upright, everything flew out of his head. Wordlessly she supported him until they made it to his room, thankfully not attracting any more attention. When he sat back down on his own bed he gestured for her to take the empty seat. She politely declined, but didn't leave.

"Thanks for the help," he started.

"Henry thought you'd push yourself too far," she said with a knowing eye.

"So he sends you to check up on me?"

"I persuaded him to turn in early. But…that is not the sole reason for my seeking your company…"

"Should I guess?" Sawyer had a pretty good idea in his mind already, and secretly it floored him to realize that each member of the League cared about him in some way or another to make his or her personal opinions known. Sawyer was no professional reader of women, but –

"None of us want you to go, Tom. We will not speak of it because we do not wish to sway your choice. We only want what is best for you."

Tom smiled, his intellect swelling at the victory. "Yeah, been hearin' that a lot lately."

"But it is true. I came only to reassure you of your place with us. You are a valuable asset, Tom, no matter whose service you choose."

"Mina—"

"Don't. I've said enough, more so than I planned. Henry bade me to tell you to rest, and so I shall leave you with that. Need I lock the door on my way out?"

Tom chuckled. "No. This dog's stayin' put for the night, 'bout wore out his legs I think."

"Good. We'll need you for tomorrow's hunt," she said. Strangely, she hesitated by the door when she caught sight of the journal in his hands. Tom looked down, then back to her face. She almost looked sad.

"Mina?"

"Will you be alright?"

The sincerity and sympathy in her voice was palpable. It made Sawyer blink, but with determination. He may be the youngest, but he was no child. And he was going to make sure it stayed that way from now on.

"I'll be fine. Thanks again and Goodnight," he said with a smile.

She returned it and closed the door soundlessly behind her. Tom sighed, bent over to take his shoes off and settled against his pillows. Reverently, he ran his hand across the cover and page edges, memorizing the feel of the smooth leather and rough paper. Surprisingly, his mind was blank. Part of him didn't want to know what lay between the last two pages, but the other part craved the wisdom that might lay there, the proof that he wanted to be there, proof that the old hunter actually cared for him in some way.

"Damn it, Sawyer," he hissed. He clenched his jaw in frustration and took a deep breath. Reading a dead friend's last message addressed to him just hadn't been in the plans today. But he did owe it to the man to read the damn thing. "Do it for Quatermain…yeah."

Carefully, the American flipped to the last two pages and extracted the letter, which had been folded in thirds. Laying the journal aside, Tom unfolded the letter and began reading by the light of his bedside table lamp. As each second passed and his eyes traveled a line lower than the previous, he couldn't help the tension that formed in his body, nor the tremble in his jaw.

* * *

Skinner wasn't really surprised at Sawyer's absence at breakfast, in fact he'd bet that Jekyll wasn't either. But the way Nemo and Mina looked around, hesitated for a few seconds before beginning the first meal of the day, rattled Skinner's nerves again. Sure he didn't count for much when the vote was three to one, but he liked to think that he mattered more than what he was worth to the League. Maybe that was why he felt so damn protective of the kid. Skinner supposed that he even idolized him because he was normal, could walk the crowds of London whereas someone like himself couldn't…well, the way he wanted to. But what Sawyer had, more than anyone else in the League, Skinner included, was heart, something that taught Skinner quite a bit in the short time they'd known one another.

The invisible man debated within himself whether he should go and check on the kid before heading to the library, but decided against it and followed the League inside. Nemo offered him a drink, but he declined…and ignored the strange look that the captain gave him. Stiffly, Skinner made his way over to one of the chairs set by the fireplace and flopped down on it. Ignoring the other members of the League, he stared into the fire and let his mind wander…and all he could think of was why he never seemed to see this fireplace bare…and where Nemo had all the wood to keep it burning.

"Mr. Holmes," Nemo began. "Has sent word that the ground establishment is nearing completion in its refurbishment and asks the extent to our progress in our current occupation."

"Much has not changed," Mina replied, with a slight glare. "And this will continue until he authorizes us the power to infiltrate their establishments."

"Or bring 'em in. That'll solve things real quick," Skinner added.

Nemo sighed. "Six weeks of tracking and eight weeks of quiet surveillance has been taxing on my crew and this ship. The Nautilus was designed for deep sea exploration, not hiding in the pool of the English channel."

"So," Henry asked, leaning against a bookcase. "What should we do?"

"I say we pay ol' Holmesy a visit. He ain't exactly met all of us yet, Jekyll."

"No, Hyde would rip him to pieces!"

"Sure'd make me feel better."

"Gentlemen," Mina interjected. But before she could continue, there was a knock at the adjacent door. Four heads whipped to the back of the room and laid eyes on Tom Sawyer meekly peeking into the room. Noticeably the kid looked a little warmer in the face, a little unsteady on his right side, but capable of holding his own without much problem.

"What's wiv' the knockin', kid?" Skinner said with a smirk.

"Come!" Nemo invited. "We were merely discussing our next approach for this evening. We are in need of your input."

Somewhat hesitantly, Tom slipped inside the room, keeping his distance from the rest of the League. Skinner couldn't help but think the boy looked like a dog with his tail between his legs.

"You worried us when you didn't come to breakfast," Mina said, softly.

"Wasn't really hungry," Tom replied, voice a little raspy.

"How are you feeling?" Henry asked.

"Little better." Nervously, the spy shuffled his feet. Skinner studied the boy with mild concern, but said nothing. "And I've got a few things that need to be said. If that's alright with everyone…?"

All looked to Nemo, but no one objected. "By all means, continue," Nemo said.

Steeling himself, the young agent too a deep breath and sighed. "First off, I'm sorry about yesterday. And I just wanna thank ya'll for what ya did. Fact is I shouldn'a let myself get worked up to that point cause I know I've got tougher skin than that. It was inconsiderate and unprofessional," he admitted. "I know a few agents back in the States that'd give me a good tongue-lashin' and it wouldn't be 'cause I didn't deserve one. So, I'm sorry."

"We accept your apology, Tom," Mina said with a smile. Jekyll and Skinner looked as if they had too. "Though I am certain that all of us would say it was unnecessary."

"Friends take care of each other, mate," Skinner added.

"We are a team," Henry said. "We always have been."

"And so we shall remain, no matter the circumstance," Nemo said with a knowing look.

Sawyer cleared his throat and shifted in place. "Which brings me to my second point…I understand the concern, honest. But runnin' back home ain't exactly gonna fix what I'm workin' through right now. And I ain't the kind of person to turn tail and leave somethin' unfinished. If it's alright with everyone, I'd rather stick this mission out to the end and close the book on this business with Moriarty's men…Maybe then do some travelin' afterwards, to clear my head…"

"You'll be alright with this then?" Jekyll asked, gaze calculating. "Continuing on as we have been for the last couple months?"

"As long as I'm not imposin' on anyone?"

"Of course not," Nemo said, somewhat annoyed from what Skinner caught in his voice.

"I will pose one condition, if I may, captain?" Henry asked.

Nemo nodded.

"If you feel your condition starts to deteriorate, you will alert either myself or one of us here, and we will help you through it, no matter the issue."

"Fine. Just don't turn me into some science experiment, we clear?"

Henry smiled. "Crystal."

"Alright, so what are we doin'? I know ya'll took off last night for my sake an' I don't know 'bout the rest of you but I'm itchin' for some action."

"Easy kid. We ain't even decided what we're doin' yet."

"Actually," Mina interjected. "Might I propose something?"

"Mrs. Harker?"

"It is clear to all of us the intent of these men. We are aware of their propensities regarding their socialities and know of their usual time of return. I propose that we use that time to infiltrate their homes and gather what evidence we can."

"We'd have no way of tracking their destinations if they do change," Henry added.

"But say we do find somethin'," Tom said. "That'd be enough to change Holmes' mind wouldn' it?"

"Be more my style of doin' things, thas for sure. Sides, if Rousseau ain't the social type tonight, I could still get in and out wiv'out much problem."

"I'm not much of a lock picker," Henry admitted.

"Don't have to be," Sawyer said, with more confidence. "I can teach ya a few tricks."

"I'm sure you can," Jekyll said. "But there is great risk to this, if we decide to go through with this plan."

Nemo cleared his throat. "I can only offer the services of my crew in the event that circumstances turn ill."

"The only risk to this," Mina stated. "Is blowing our cover. The worst possible outcome that I can foresee is one of these men running into the depths of London."

"Or fleeing the country," Henry surmised.

Sawyer smirked, "In which case, all we'd have to do is track 'em down again. All of 'em ain't gonna get past us if that does happen."

"But what are the risks that some do?" Nemo interjected. "Their research would most likely continue."

"But we ain't got no idea what that research is," Skinner vented. "The way I see it, we go in and have a looksee as to how dangerous the situation really is. Iv it ain't, we blow 'em outta va water. If so…well, we worry 'bout that when it comes to it."

Henry sighed after Skinner finished. He was right. They were all right. And nothing more could really be done until there was a vote taken. When Henry called for a show of hands, the decision and course of action was clear. Inwardly, Hyde smiled at the prospect of being set loose, and possibly causing a little mayhem. Henry worried about Edward, but reveled in the fact that the League was once again making their own decisions and acting on their own. As far as Henry was concerned, Mycroft Holmes could shove his paperwork and surveillance reports somewhere he knew Hyde would be eager to supply the force for.

* * *

Illuminated by the crackling fire that was burning the remnants of their failed experiments, Richard Harding stoked it with a piece of rod iron as one would stab at a wounded animal.

"A success?" he asked.

"Yes," Edwards replied. "Though minimal. We can continue the second round of dosage tomorrow and I'm sure you'll get your real results then."

"Good. Tell Rousseau to get dressed."

"Sir?"

"We're going to be taking our little American on a field trip, and in order to do that we need a special sort of bait. Round up the others."

Edwards shuffled away and Harding continued to listen to the fire crack as the flames begged for more fuel. The heat was welcome and he leaned into it. It was heat he longed for in his life now. The cold had long since imbedded itself into his body, and though it refused to leave him, he knew a quick fix that would keep his blood warm for days after.

"Time for a bit of cat and mouse, Thomas," he whispered.

* * *

**And that's chapter 4. Had some trouble with Skinner this chapter. How much do I HATE writing a cockney accent? Big time. But between Tom's American slang and Skinner's accent I worried that there wasn't enough difference. Did that confuse anyone?**

**Thanks, as always! You guys rock!**

**-Rainsaber**


	5. The Edge of Perdition

**Note: The end of this chapter is a bit suggestive, so if you want to skip over the last section, feel free. **

**Chapter Five**—The Edge of Perdition

_Sawyer, _

_ I owe you an apology. One that I know I won't have the time to properly deliver to you in person. You asked about Harry and I shut you out. Understand that this old man has grown used to being alone. Burying loved ones seemed to have been a hobby of mine, so I decided to shut everyone out, for their own safety and to make the burden of my soul lighter. I have come to terms with the fact that I am a selfish person, that I don't have the capacity to tear this letter in two and go knock on your door. _

_ The truth is that you do not deserve someone like me, because I do not deserve someone like yourself. You have so much to offer, son. Don't let someone like Moriarty destroy everything we have pledged to defend. And don't let the League keep you from doing what you know to be right. Learn to listen to what your heart tells you. Don't shut that voice out like I have, not for anyone's benefit. _

_ Whatever the turn of this business in Mongolia, know that the time I've been fortunate to have spent with you has been more rewarding than the past twenty years that I've spent wallowing in my own guilt in the depths of Africa. This new century is yours. Carry on what we have fought for. And find happiness. It is a treasure worth more than all the treasures of the world. Happiness keeps someone as old as myself breathing. You reminded me of what it felt like to be alive again, even if for the briefest of moments. And for that I am eternally grateful. _

_ —Allan _

The letter lay folded on top of the journal and underneath the bedside lamp from which Sawyer read it the previous night. As the spy loaded his colts by the mirror on his bureau he did so with a peace of mind. Tom supposed that he'd been jumping to conclusions about Harding. Hell, it was hard not to. A year of real physical and mental torment by that man added with a threat to return one day would make anyone a little skittish. Sawyer paused before closing the barrel of the second colt, closed his eyes, and breathed to calm his nerves.

He refused to give in to his memories, to the fear that Harding was alive, and the irrational fear that he was here in London. He'd dealt with it all this far and he could keep it going. The League had been a breath of fresh air for him, and Allan realized that. He never knew the truth about Tom, but he never asked. Sawyer supposed that he'd been curious, maybe had even stopped himself from asking at one point or another, but the respect that he received from the old hunter spoke volumes. It was a wonder that two people generations apart, separated by an ocean and culture could bond as quickly as Tom and Allan did.

That incident with the gun on the tower had bothered him quite a bit over the months. He did feel guilty about it, and had even tried to work up the courage to apologize to Allan, but the man always seemed immersed in his own work. And Allan had said nothing more about it, carrying on as if the comment had never been made. Tom just wished that he did have that chance to apologize because it was just as much his fault for letting the words slip out. Despite what the letter said he didn't want to continue believing that he's screwed up something special.

Allan reminded Tom of what he was doing half way across the world, and why he loved it, lived for it. Sure, he had been subjected to one of the worst things a man could do to a person, but the fact that Tom was an agent on the other side of the coin, exacting justice, brought him solace. It was something worth breathing for everyday, worth staying alive for. And spending it worrying whether Harding was out there looking for him, or whether he was even still alive, didn't appeal to him anymore.

He sighed, opened his eyes and closed the barrel of the second colt, shoving it into its holster. On his way out of the room he shrugged on his coat and hat and grabbed his Winchester. Thank God he'd be doing something tonight that required his full attention. Tom wasn't sure he could stand more unoccupied time to self-reflect on every piece of guilt he was carrying around…or at least the ones he wasn't ignoring.

Four hours later, cold and wet, Tom was more than emotionally strung out. He was downright pissed. Edwards was still in his apartment. He couldn't make the man go out, but waiting in a dark alley across the street, staring through the windows of his third floor apartment was starting to wear on the young agent. He wasn't Skinner who could get in and out whether the occupant was home or not. Everyone was probably back at the rendezvous point already and here Tom was waiting for something that obviously wasn't going to happen.

Frankly, he was surprised that no one had come looking for him yet, but the more time that passed the deadline the better he felt. It was almost like he was a kid again, out past his curfew that Aunt Polly always tried to enforce. Briefly, Tom smiled at the number of times he broke that curfew. He had lost count after nearly fifty.

He almost called it a night, too annoyed at being stuck in the dark and damp alley for so long. But right when he made ready to move, the lights turned off in Edwards' apartment. Tom stilled. Was the man going to bed? Thirty seconds after, Edwards came out of the front door and turned right down the street. This late? Once the scientist turned the corner, Tom took a quick look around and sprinted for the front door. As strange as it was, Tom didn't question it and focused on picking the lock.

* * *

Henry Jekyll stood on the plank of the Nautilus, anxiously fidgeting with the pocket watch in his hand. Tom was nowhere in sight and it had been almost two hours past their allotted meeting time. He'd barely been able to convince Mina to stay with him on the ship. He'd hoped, an hour ago, that Tom was just running late. But now he wasn't so sure. Skinner had left half an hour ago and there was no sign of him either.

"Henry," Mina called, glaring none too lightly. "How much longer do you intend we wait?"

Jekyll sighed. _–The vampire is right, Henry. We could find them both before the hour is done and you know it!—_Hyde was right. As much as Henry hated to admit it, he needed Edward now if there was any hope that both Skinner and Sawyer would make it back to the ship alive. Too much time had passed.

"No," he said, finally. "We've waited long enough." He snapped the pocket watch shut and approached Nemo inside the ship. Both men stared at each other until Nemo silently slipped the doctor one of his vials. Jekyll couldn't help the smirk that he felt appear on his face. Before he departed with Mina for the hunt he turned his eyes back to the Captain.

"This shouldn't take too long."

* * *

"God damn it!" Tom cursed.

He'd successfully broken three out of the four picks that he brought with him. Either Edwards had a lock specially made to break these indestructible picks or Sawyer was just that unlucky. Maybe he was just out of practice. He took a second to breathe and wiped the sweat from his face and tried one last time with the last pick that he'd brought with him. Two clicks to the right, one to the left, and a little leverage from below…The lock gave a satisfying pop and the door slowly swung open. Tom chuckled and let out a breath that he'd been holding.

But he stilled when he heard a creak in the floorboards near the stairwell. His head whipped to the right and his eyes widened when he saw Edwards and Rousseau staring right at him with wide eyes. How hadn't he heard them? For the longest second, no one moved or breathed. Then, Rousseau shouted and ran down the stairs. Edwards followed suit. Tom cursed, grabbed his Winchester, and dashed out after them.

Their cover that had lasted for two months had been blown wide open. All Sawyer could think about, as he ran after the two men, was the look in Edward's eyes at the recognition that they were discovered. Everything the League had worked towards was about to be flushed down the drain because of Sawyer's clumsy hands. Unless he could catch at least one of them, it was all going to be for nothing.

Unfortunately, Sawyer tripped over a pile of garbage as he rounded a corner at top speed. Though he'd had the skill to roll and prevent himself from injury, he was forced in that split second to choose who he was to follow, since both men conveniently decided to take different paths. It only took him half a second to decide. He hadn't really planned on running halfway across London, but that couldn't really be helped at this point. The next turn led to a dead end and Sawyer had just caught up to a cornered and gasping Edwards. The scientist spun around but halted when he caught sight of Sawyer's Winchester pointed in his face.

Tom smiled, triumphantly, but neither spoke. As the seconds passed, and each man regained air, the scientist's face contorted further into anger…and oddly, delight.

"So," he drawled. "You think that you've caught me? You think that you're clever in chasing down one of the most brilliant minds of the century? Well let me tell you, sonny, physicality is nothing in comparison to intelligence!" Edwards spat.

Tom's response was the loud cock of his rifle. "It's best you do like the villains in the ol' westerns: shut yer trap and put 'em up. I ain't got the patience for your lip."

Sawyer watched as Edwards slowly complied. Oddly, for a man who was at the mercy of a gun, Edwards winked. Tom tensed, finger secured at the trigger. Someone moved from behind him, but he didn't have time to swung around and confront the man who brutally struck him on the back of the head. Still conscious as he fell to the ground, he groaned in pain on the wet stone as a couple of men passed him. He tried to stand but he was hit again, near the same spot.

"Stop you imbecile! He wants him conscious!"

One of them took his Winchester and another roughly pulled Sawyer to his knees. Immediately he tried to jerk away, but someone kicked the wind out of him. Men, on either side of him held his arms away from his body, but Tom couldn't make them out through his blurry vision.

Edwards leaned close to his face. "Bit confused are we?"

"Edwards!" another, gruffer voice said. "Leave the boy to me. That was our agreement." A pause. "Blindfold him."

He instantly tried to resist but found his muscles unwilling to follow his commands. He grunted in frustration when his sight was taken away. Who was this guy? Was he their leader? Had he worked for Moriarty as well? And why did he sound familiar? Then a voice appeared by his ear.

"Does it frighten you, my little American, to not be able to see what I'm about to do to you?"

Sawyer refused to acknowledge the hitch in his breathing and the slight trembling in his hands. _Shit. _Where the hell was the League when you needed them? He'd been gone for too long now, they had to have realized that. He couldn't place the accent and tone…but he felt like he should have, as soon as that first syllable had been uttered.

"But you shouldn't be afraid," the man continued. "Not yet. I just couldn't resist giving you a little taste of what will come…maybe stir up some fond memories of us."

Whoever was speaking to him was doing his damned best at giving Sawyer the creeps. Enough was enough. He was cold, wet, tired, and nauseous from the blows to his head. He didn't like being toyed with, especially in front of a large group of men. More so for himself than for those who held him, he grit his teeth and summoned up his courage, doing his best to sound angry rather than fearful.

"Who the hell—" were the only words that Sawyer managed to get out of his mouth before the man who spoke covered it with his lips, forcing his tongue inside.

The world spun. The present moment shattered. Tom was suspended for a period of two seconds before he fell back down into his body being violated…again. Horrified at the man's invasion, Sawyer caught the man's tongue between his teeth and bit down as hard as he could. The man screamed in response and recoiled. A second later, Sawyer received a blow across the face. Stars filled his vision and blood flew freely from his nose as someone grabbed his chin roughly.

"You play like that again, I'll make sure you beg for it," the man hissed.

In response, Sawyer spat the blood in his mouth forward, feeling, with satisfaction, the man who was holding him jerk back. The hands holding him down tightened. Tom steeled himself for the next blow. But to his surprise, he wasn't struck.

"It is a little refreshing," he heard. "To have someone with such energy as yours."

The young spy couldn't help the trembling that erupted from the rough treatment. He hated not being in control, being at the mercy of someone else. But what the hell could he do from this vantage point? And where the hell were the League? Hyde could smell him from miles away and Mina could cover several blocks in a minute.

Suddenly, hands were unsnapping the colts in his holsters. Tom struggled but grunted in frustration when they were taken. He would have cursed but he didn't want to give these men the satisfaction of him feeling at a disadvantage without his guns.

"All grown up are we?"

He heard the barrel spin and cock into place once again. Then he felt the barrel under his jaw and a breath against his face. "Perhaps…and perhaps not."

Tom didn't answer, not even when he felt the unbuttoning of his shirt. It took all of his will power not to make a sound, despite the pressure building in his chest. The last time he was held down like this, he had been much younger and so much more innocent. It couldn't be happening again. Not again. Sawyer struggled harder, but to no avail. Then he jumped when he felt hands on his bare chest.

"I have to admit," the man continued. Then a face was at his neck, breathing him in. Tom could no longer control the gasps of breath and the heaving of his chest. The memories were coming too fast. "I've longed for such spunk as yours again."

Tom was getting dizzy. His breaths now came in faint gasps, unable to catch any more air. This wasn't Harding, it couldn't be. It didn't even sound like the bastard. But the way he was talking…he couldn't stop the panic-attack this time, because what was happening to him was real, and not a memory. It was too fresh. He needed to get away.

"Ten years," the man hissed.

Tom drew in a ragged breath, suddenly very afraid.

"Ten years, Thomas. Our little escapade in the night couldn't keep me away."

_Oh, God…no, please no, no, no, no, no! _It couldn't be _him._ _Please, God, don't let it be him!_ His heart skipped and the lower half of his face showed true fear for longer than he could control. He felt weak, small, and surrounded, without any means of escape. And he was on the edge of consciousness, his body threatening to give out on him just as it had back on the Nautilus. This wasn't his nightmare. It was real, a fear fully realized. Then he felt a hand grab at the blindfold, clench it tight in preparation for the reveal. But he didn't want to see. He didn't want to know. Not now. Not here. Not ever. A short strangled cry echoed off the walls.

Then there was a noise behind the group, the cocking of a rifle.

"Let the kid go and I don't blow your bloody brains out all over the nice alleyway, eh?"

Both men holding him tensed. Still somewhat coherent, Sawyer couldn't mistake that cockney accent for anyone else but Skinner. Relief exploded in him at the immediate fact that he wasn't alone. Tom just hoped that he wasn't imagining it. At the moment he didn't care what compromising position he was in; he shouted for joy inside his head.

"Where is he?" one whispered.

"Who is he? I can't see him," another whispered back.

"Well I can see the bloody gun and that's enough! Fucking hell," Harding hissed. "Let him go! We're done here."

Someone dragged Sawyer to his feet, blindfold still secured, and shoved him backwards before could get his bearings. He slammed into another body but couldn't keep his senses straight to get on his own feet again. The world was still spinning at a velocity that he just couldn't catch up with.

* * *

Bromley was standing at the opening of an alley, sporting a rifle, rather a very specific model of Winchester. Now that was strange. Skinner had been at the streets for nearly an hour and he'd bet his life that down that alleyway he'd find his friend. Cautiously he crept up on the scientist and just as he started to tense at feeling the presence of another person, Skinner grabbed hold of the rifle and swung the butt end up into the man's face with a good amount of force. Out instantly, Skinner allowed himself a little chuckle before making his way toward voices.

He slowed his pace and ducked behind a few trashcans when he saw a group of four men. Then he peered over the metal containers and tensed at the sight of two men holding Sawyer down in a kneeling position. Skinner nearly hissed when he saw another and unrecognizable man take away the American's pistols, handing one to Edwards and threatening the kid with the other. It was bad enough that Sawyer was in the position he was in, but with all the scientists in one place at one time with this new bloke? Something just didn't smell right.

_What the bloody hell did the kid get 'imself into now?_

How much did they know? Had they gotten anything out of Sawyer? Blood dripped from an injury on the back of his head and he looked a bit roughed up. But the strangest part was that the new man was whispering in the boy's ear, holding something…one of his pistols under his jaw, and staring at him with a dark gleam in his eyes. In fact, Sawyer was blindfolded and…was his shirt open? Skinner shivered, despite himself and made a grab for the rifle that he'd commandeered. Anger boiled in his gut when he realized what was going to happen if he didn't step in soon.

Quickly, Skinner familiarized himself with the mechanism and tried his best to mimic his memories of both Tom and Allan as he raised the gun into plain sight. No one had noticed him yet, but he'd make sure they did when he cocked the gun, none too softly. He smirked when he saw all five men turn in his direction with wide eyes. What happened next happened too fast for Skinner to remember clearly. All he could comprehend for the moment was someone firing at the trash cans at his back and him shielding Sawyer as best as he could.

"Over the wall! Now!" someone shouted.

The bullets continued to hammer the containers at Skinner's back. But between bullets, Skinner picked up a strange thudding sound. He chanced a peek through a small opening between two of the cans and saw, to his amazement, Rousseau vaulting up to the edge of the twenty-foot wall with two men in his arms as if it were nothing. Distracted by the sudden discovery, one bullet snuck through and imbedded itself into the invisible man's shoulder.

* * *

Skinner's shout of pain shook Tom out of his head. Slowly he was able to gain his bearings and felt his Winchester at his feet. As quick as his body would allow, he wrenched the blindfold down, grabbed the rifle, and waited for a break in the gunfire. When he peeked overtop the trashcans he saw Rousseau grab the last man standing, who happened to be Howell, and make a run for the wall. Tom took quick aim and fired at Rousseau. The man screamed an inhuman scream and vaulted himself over the wall. Tom stared, incoherently, in amazement and listened to the fading footsteps and shouts.

Out of pure exhaustion, Sawyer fell against the wall and vaguely heard his Winchester clatter to the ground. He clenched his eyes shut and tried to catch his breath as images flew in front of his eyes. Skinner grunted in pain somewhere to his right. But his consciousness abruptly left the dark English alley for a warmer place with higher humidity, thick with fear and pain.

* * *

_ A man was coming towards him. Another at his back held him down, prevented him from running. It was dark. Two other men stood off at a distance with lanterns, turning their backs when the third stalked off. Slits of moonlight passed over his attacker's face as he came closer. He stooped down and grabbed the boy's face. _

_ "Tell me your name," he demanded._

_ Tom clamped his mouth shut to prevent them from hearing his teeth chatter. He wasn't sure if that was from the cool night air or the fact that he was stuck between a rock and a hard place with no chance at escape. There were just too many of them for him to evade, even in the dark. Then he got slapped, hard, across the face. _

_ "What is your name," the man growled._

_ His face stung, and somehow he knew it would feel worse if he kept quiet. Besides, it was just his name. Maybe they'd let him go if he promised to forget them. "Tom," he whispered._

_ "Who knows you're out here," he asked, louder. "Speak boy!"_

_ "N-no one," he replied, cringing at how pathetic he sounded. "No one."_

_ The man smirked and leaned closer, a breath away from his face. "You're a liar. Do you know what happens to liars, Thomas?"_

_ "I-I won't say anythin'. Nothin' to n-nobody. I-I promise—"_

_ "Promises, promises. People have broken promises to me so many times, Thomas. But I understand the intent. Why don't we just ensure that you don't disappoint me?"_

_ "P-please, I won't—"_

_ "Richard," the one holding Tom down, started._

_ The man grabbed Tom's hair and pulled, nearly making their faces touch. "Shut up! Now you listen to me, boy, and you listen good! If I so much as feel a graze of those teeth I will come back and make your life a living hell, do you understand me? Your aunt, your cousins, your friends _all dead!_"_

_ Tom shivered. What was he talking about? He promised not to say anything, what were they going to do to him? Shit! Shit, shit, shit! Where was Huck when you needed him?_

_ His face was shoved away and the man who spoke to him stood up. The man holding him down tightened his hold and sighed. Then he heard the man in front of him mess with his belt and the zipper from his pants. Tom chanced a look up and was confronted with what would later be the loss of his childhood. His eyes widened in confusion. The man smirked again, his voice low and husky as he leaned closer._

_ "Now," he hissed. "Open your mouth, kid."_

_

* * *

_**I can only say that I had an absolutely horrible weekend, and the only saving grace that kept me going through it was the fact that I had chapters to post for you guys, after all was said and done. You guys (readers and reviewers) and your continued support means A LOT to me. It's funny how something as small as posting another chapter can seem like the light at the end of the tunnel, but believe me when I say my weekend was, in fact, THAT bad and that you all kept me going. So, Thank you once again.**

**Another chapter will follow either in the morning or on Wednesday or Thursday. Will be away from the computer for a couple of days, but all business will be taken care of then if not tomorrow. **

**Let me know what you guys think about the chapter, especially about Harding. Any input or observations are more than welcome! I can only see so much from behind this screen after editing, reading, and re-editing it multiple times. **

**Big Thank You again.**

**-Rainsaber **


	6. Split

**Chapter Six**—Split

From the top of an apartment complex, Hyde sniffed the air. Below was a lone woman crossing the street. _–Now, Edward, we have more important business to attend to. There isn't much time left—_ Edward smirked and defiantly made ready to jump across to the next building in pursuit, but stilled and sniffed the air again._ –What is it?— _Edward growled.

"There's blood on the air, and I can smell the brat. They're close." Edward by no means liked the child, but was very territorial as far as his circle of trust was concerned. He didn't like intruders and absently hoped someone was there to take out his aggression on, as he sped across the London rooftops. Not only that, but he smelled something new, something that he decided he didn't like.

* * *

Rodney Skinner cursed as he pulled his hand away with visible blood. He took a look and could clearly see the bullet lodged somewhere into his shoulder. Walking back to the Nautilus was out of the question now. Skinner was no stranger to pain but in all his years, even since ingesting the invisibility serum, he'd never been shot or experienced the kind of pain that accompanied being shot. It was hard to still his shaking arm, and he knew that he couldn't speak as softly or as evenly as he usually did. When he caught sight of Sawyer, as the boy fell against the wall, he nearly groaned aloud. They really made quite the pair, and there was no hope for either of them if Jekyll didn't get his foot out of his own arse soon and send out Nemo's men for a search party.

"Sawyer?" Skinner croaked.

The unresponsiveness only worried Skinner more. Painfully, he dragged himself in front of the agent and tried again to get his attention. The kid looked like he was awake, but his face had gone white and his eyes weren't focused. Worse yet, Skinner swore he was mumbling something to himself, the same thing over and over. Skinner shouted, made loud noises, waved inches from the spy's face, and shook him, but nothing gave.

Skinner looked around but found nothing that could be of help. Then, like a light bulb, something clicked. It was grotesque and harsh, sure, but hopefully it would work. Quickly, and as carefully as he could, he reached behind to his bleeding shoulder and wiped up as much of the blood that was still fresh and oozing out of the wound as he could. Then he wiped it across his own face, cringing at the smell. Hating himself, but only thinking of Sawyer, he grabbed the collar of his white shirt, steeling himself for what he knew he needed to do.

"Sorry, mate," he said.

He swung his free hand around and slapped the boy across the face. The crack echoed. The mumbling stopped. Sawyer blinked, and he started to look around in a daze. Rodney was just thankful that he hadn't broken the skin on the boy's cheek.

"Tom?"

Abruptly, Sawyer turned, eyes widening when he realized that he could see the invisible man. Then he sobered when he realized what was on Rodney's face. "Skinner? What—"

"Don' tell me you forget shootin' Rousseau in'a back?"

"No, I—What happened to _you?_"

"Bullet in'a shoulder. It'll heal, hopefully, whenever the bugger stops bleedin'." Skinner let himself laugh. More than anything he was just happy the kid was lucid. "And whenever Hyde gets Jekyll's bloody arse off'a ship," he muttered.

Tom got a good look at the bullet lodged in Skinner's shoulder. That wasn't going to come out easily. Then he looked down at himself and noticed a rip in the side of his shirt. Despite the offsetting of his nerves again, he focused as best he could for his friend and ripped the strip of fabric off. He'd never be wearing this shirt again anyway. "Here," he said, reaching behind to wrap the still bleeding wound.

"You don't 'ave to—"

"S'alright. Shirt's ruined anyway."

Skinner winced at the pressure from the fabric, but knew that it had to be done, unless he wanted to bleed to death before getting back. "You alright, kid?"

"Bump on the head, s'all—"

"Wasn' what I meant. You walk in on somethin' you shouldn've? Or was it planned?"

"I…I don't know." But Tom knew what the truth was. It _had_ been planned. He shivered because Skinner was right. There was no other way around it. He had fallen right into a trap…and if it hadn't been for Skinner's help…

Skinner sighed. "One get a little too close for comfort?"

Sawyer stilled, refusing to make eye contact. God, how stupid was he? "I'd rather not talk about it."

"Jekyll might make you—"

"Yeah, if you tell him," he snapped.

"Look, kid, I ain't no stranger to the kin'a blokes that traipse the underworld o'these streets." Tom pulled his coat closer about him and leaned back against the wall, hugging his knees to his chest. "Ain't exactly a stranger to their likes eiver," he added, quietly. "But I know what kin'a trouble kin come your way if you ain't careful."

"'Bout ten years too late for that, Skinner."

Rodney sent a questioning glance to Sawyer but neither had a chance to respond. A low rumbling was coming their way. Skinner turned and looked up, half-smiling when he recognized the pounding from the rooftops. Seconds later, Hyde jumped down into the clearing below. He landed with a loud thud, cracking the pavement, and slumped closer to Skinner and Sawyer, sweating from what anyone else would think was exertion. But Skinner new different, knew that Hyde's time was almost up.

"Hyde," Skinner acknowledged.

"You're bloody," he grumbled.

"Observant," Skinner groused as a muscle spasm erupted in his shoulder. "Where's Mina?" _Last thing I need is a bloody vampire wiv' all this blood._

"The vampire is—rah!—close." Hyde stumbled against the far wall, panting. "Damn you, Henry!"

"You'll get your time, Hyde," Sawyer spoke, nearly too quiet for Skinner to hear at first. "Just sorry it ain't tonight."

Rodney couldn't help a glance at the kid, surprised at the genuine regret that he heard. Hyde was silent for a moment, before the transformation began. Briefly, the invisible man wished he could read minds, but then decided against that notion. Being invisible and nearly all knowing might put him on too high a pedestal than he was comfortable with. Deep down, he knew he really hungered for that power, but it would erase all that he'd tried to erase about himself and every thing he'd done before he met the League. Going back on his promises just wasn't in the cards anymore, both for himself and his friends.

* * *

Mina descended from the sky in a swirl of darkness, bats fading to dust as she walked towards familiar voices. Self-consciously, she turned up the collar of her coat and fingered the flare gun in her pocket. She turned and surveyed the expanse of the empty street, searching for wandering souls, but found none. When she caught wind of Hyde's screams, she continued on. She slowed her steps in front of an alley and muffled her footfalls to listen to the voices she heard. As she listened, her eye caught a glint of something in front of her feet. She bent down and picked up a worn notebook and smelled the air. A man had fallen here, specks of blood proving her theory. But he was long gone now. She sighed and pocketed the piece of evidence, intending on studying it closer later.

"That was quick," Skinner groused.

"I don't dare use...more than a concentrated dose anymore," Henry panted. "Besides...something told me that more wouldn't be needed."

"Wouldn' be _needed?_ Well the _fucking __bullet_ in my shoulda disagrees. Could'a used his bloody arse ten minutes back when it was _rainin'_ bullets!"

"You're injured!"

"What, did Hyde finally knock some sense int—?"

Suddenly, the night sky flashed bright with light. Swiftly, she stowed the smoking flare gun into her pocket and briskly walked forward, heels clattering on the pavement. When her eyes adjusted to the darkness she was worried at what she saw. Tom was exceedingly pale, sweaty, head bloody, and he trembled under her hands at his shoulders. Skinner was no better.

"Tom?" she whispered.

The young American didn't even blink.

"Tom?" she said louder with a shake.

Barely audible she could make out words that he was mumbling under his breath. "…promise I won't—promise I won't."

"Not again," Skinner mumbled.

Mina turned to Skinner, who she was surprised to actually be able to see, covered in what appeared to be his own blood. Automatically, her eyes narrowed, studying the wound and make-shift tourniquet applied to slow the bleeding. Skinner shuffled nervously, the muscles around his eyes stretching.

"Now Mina—" he started, uneasily.

"Don't worry," she said evenly. "I do not thirst for your blood, Mr. Skinner. It does not appeal to my senses."

He turned to Jekyll who looked just as startled at the response. Skinner chuckled and spoke in a wavering voice. "Cold shoulder, love?"

"Something to do with his invisibility," Jekyll supplied, weary. "Perhaps?"

"Possibly," she replied. "You found him like this Mr. Skinner?"

"No' exactly."

"What happened, Rodney?" Jekyll asked quietly, though not quiet enough for Mina's ears.

"Not now and not here." The tone in his voice was one that Mina had not heard before. It held a seriousness that sent a chill down her spine, made her worry about the young boy even more. Suddenly, Tom's breathing grew heavier. He shut his eyes tight and started humming. Mina turned back to Henry, frightened for Tom's mental state. Skinner hung his head.

"Henry," she prompted.

"I…" For a moment the doctor looked at a true loss for what to do. Then he pushed himself away from the wall and staggered over to the rest of the group. He took one look at Skinner, who was shaking like a leaf, and laid a comforting hand on the uninjured shoulder of the invisible man, promising him help once Nemo arrived. Numbly, Skinner nodded. "Your guess is as good as mine," he told Mina. "Psychology is not my expertise."

"Well, ya better make it now," Skinner ground out.

Mina turned away from the grumbling two and caressed the side of Tom's face. He had by no means stopped humming, but had lowered his voice almost to the level of a whisper, insistent and isolated. Unbidden, an old lullaby from her childhood came to the surface of her consciousness, and before she knew what she was doing, she was softly singing the words that had, many times, put her comfortably to sleep. Though it silenced the other two at her side, she kept her voice quiet, not wanting intruders wandering the streets to hear and grow curious.

She'd long since stowed her gloves in her pocket and laid her hands at Sawyer's temples, gently massaging away the tension. Gradually, Tom started to respond. He stopped humming, his breathing eased and he grew still. But Mina knew better than to think a mere lullaby had quelled whatever monsters were plaguing the young spy's mind. Once she finished, she wondered if she had actually succeeded in putting Tom to sleep when his head lolled forward. But then he opened his eyes, lazily taking in his surroundings until he barely managed to focus on her.

"Mina?" he rasped.

"Yes, Tom," she replied with a smile.

"You're…cold."

Mina merely smiled and moved to check the injury on the back of his head.

"What—wzs…that," he slurred.

"A gaelic lullaby. It's put my mind to ease many times."

"Did I—"

"Yeah, kid," Skinner said. "You did."

"Tom," Jekyll started. "Do you remember much?"

"'s cold," he replied, with a shiver.

"Can you stand?" she asked.

Carefully, Tom nodded. Mina helped him to a standing position, worried when she felt him trembling and unsteady. Abruptly, Tom tore himself free of her support and stumbled over to a broken trash can, catching himself on the rim as he uncontrollably wretched. Mina, no stranger to illness, steadied the boy from behind, casting a glance over at Henry who gazed on worriedly, his hands full of Skinner who Mina sensed was close to unconsciousness.

"Poor kid," Skinner breathed.

A low rumble crawled down the street and Mina couldn't help the slight smile. Once Nemo parked the Automobile she motioned for Henry to take Skinner ahead. When they had gone, Sawyer wiped a trembling arm of his coat across his mouth and straightened up with Mina's help. The two slowly made their way to the car and it sped away towards the docks once all were secured inside.

* * *

The ride had been rather uneventful, and surprisingly, Nemo hadn't said a word, not even when they reached the Nautilus. Tom coughed into his hand, discreetly and sniffed. He'd done this before for a lot of friends, for a lot of people he cared about. Waiting outside the infirmary, waiting for news, was never easier every time he did it. Granted he wasn't alone this time, but it was hardly welcome. Mina hadn't let him out of her sight since they boarded the ship. She'd cleaned the cut on his head and had practically forced him into a seat while they waited for news on Skinner. He welcomed her presence though, because it kept him from losing his hold on the present.

It had been a couple of hours since their return, and with each passing minute, his stomach turned over again and again. It was his fault that Skinner was in there with a bullet in his shoulder. It was his fault for dragging the League out there after him. He'd gone against what they agreed upon just so it would make him feel better, just so he could feel like he'd accomplished something other than being a man's shadow over the past few months. And now, one of his friends was paying for it.

Abruptly, the door to the infirmary was yanked open. Tom turned fearful eyes onto a weary Jekyll. He wanted to ask, but suddenly just didn't have the nerve.

"Henry?" Mina asked, softly.

Jekyll leaned against the door jam and sighed, running a hand through his hair. "He'll be fine."

Tom let out a breath, clearly relieved.

"Was rather a bit of a challenge," Jekyll continued. "But the bullet is out. All that's left is to make sure he doesn't catch an infection."

A crewman stepped forward. "Sir, the captain would want to know—"

Jekyll nodded. "Go, then. But he's not up to visitors at the moment. It would be best to leave him until tomorrow."

When the man disappeared, Jekyll reached inside the room and grabbed a wooden chair, shutting the door as quietly as he could behind him. Tom's brow creased when he set the chair down between him and Mina, and sat. Being that the infirmary was at the end of the hallway, Tom was quite literally cornered with Mina on one side and Jekyll blocking his way.

"We waited for you," Jekyll said, "But both of you were quite late. What happened? Do you have no internal sense of time?"

Tom tensed at the tone, angry that he was being confronted like this. He was tired. All he wanted at the moment was to be left alone, to wash the filth from those men off of him, to clean up, to erase any evidence that it happened at all. "_What_ do you want me to say?" he exploded. "What was I supposed t'have-"

"Keep your voice down!" Jekyll hissed. Footsteps on the metal planks approached. Tom spared a glance at Nemo who slowed his pace, most likely feeling the tension in the air. "I want you to tell us what happened, Tom."

Tom laughed. What happened? But a simple explanation just wasn't enough. They wanted it blow for blow. They wanted him to relive it for their own knowledge. Could he even force himself to go through the fresh memories without getting sick again? Tom shut his eyes tight and breathed, forcing himself to stay calm. He couldn't lose it again, didn't want to feel the pain twist his insides again. Harding had a strong hold over him, yet again, and if he was going to break it this time it had to start with the basics, with words. He needed to say something to break free, to have some breathing room.

"Tom?" Mina asked.

"Someone's behind 'em," he said at effort.

"Behind who?" Nemo asked.

"The scientists."

Henry leaned closer. "Are you certain?"

"Pretty damn. Sure as hell wish I wasn't."

"They have a leader," Mina asked.

Tom nodded, and then there was silence. Nerves nearly made him bolt at the last second, because he knew that they were going to ask him next. Bile rose in his throat but he recalled Mina's lullaby to mind, to keep him calm.

"Do you know who it is, Tom?" Henry asked.

He took a deep breath and steeled himself. "Yeah," he said. Hopefully his voice wouldn't break over the course of the next four syllables. "Richard Harding."

* * *

After Tom had gone to bed and tempers had gone down, Mina found herself by Skinner's bedside. Henry was behind her washing up. Nemo had long since retired as well. While she listened to the steady and even breathing of sleep, she passed a hand over her eyes. They had come close to losing one of their own tonight, perhaps two if it hadn't been for Skinner's brash outburst and abrupt departure. And now they had a mastermind behind these scientists to consider. They would have to report to Mycroft Holmes in the morning, explain their deviation and failure. The consequences to follow, for all of them would not be light. She sighed. Everything was becoming more complicated by the second.

Henry finished up and threw a towel against the basin. Mina turned and watched as he leaned against the table and closed his eyes. Wordlessly she rose from her seat and crossed the room.

"I shouldn't have said those things," he whispered.

"They were said out of concern," she replied. "Not anger."

"Be that as it may, I should apologize."

Mina sighed. "Then rest first. It has been a long night for all of us."

Finally, Jekyll straightened himself and turned around. "A long night for nothing. They could be half-way across the ocean by now."

Mina's brows furrowed. Would they be? Her mind suddenly turned to her earlier discovery, and she hastily drew it forth from her pocket. In better light it was a medium brown leather bound notebook with two initials embossed upon the top right corner of the front cover. Her mind froze at the two letters: S. B.

"What is that?" Henry asked.

Mina tore open the front cover and, sure enough, upon the inside was the owner's full name. "Bromley's journal," she breathed.

Henry held his breath and stepped closer, one hand on the other side, turning the page to reveal the beginning of a long series of notes, equations, and hasty sketches. "How…"

Page after page proved years of research on both human anatomy and that of experimental hybrids. Both successes and failures were recorded, as well as dates and names. Every scientist had been accounted for since Mongolia, their laboratories of choice, their doings, and their victims.

"My God," Henry breathed.

After nearly ten minutes of mind-spinning evidence and horrible discoveries, Mina looked up from the table where they'd poured over the journal. "Henry," she whispered with a smile. "I believe we have all the proof we need here in our hands."

* * *

The next day passed slowly. When Mycroft Holmes had been presented with the League's discovery he had been angry at first, but had authorized them to finally infiltrate their premises and arrest them for questioning. Mina took to the skies when the sun fell. It was up to everyone else to wait. Though the journal had said nothing of the scientists' present location, they had been able to surmise that all their previous test sites had been near the docks, an easy location to dump the test subjects in the case of a failure. And no one could really stop Mina once she made up her mind. But Tom still didn't like it. This was Harding that they were dealing with. Whatever his plan was with these men didn't matter. One injured friend was enough.

Sawyer stopped pacing one of the indoor gardens. How many more of them did it take for Sawyer to realize the position he was in now? The League was in danger because of him. There was no doubt in his mind that Harding knew of them…how else would he know to lure Tom to him through Edwards, to do it after the rest of the League had gone? If the beginning was only a bullet in Skinner's shoulder, who would be next? And he was working with scientists that were familiar with Skinner's invisibility, Mina's vampirism, Jekyll's Hyde, and Nemo's technology. Would Harding stop at nothing until he got to Tom again? Did he care about the American that much?

No. A bastard like that didn't care about people. He only cared about power, about making himself feel good. He was the devil in disguise, hell bent on taking possession of Tom's soul, and right now...he was doing a damn good job of it. Hastily, Tom wiped at his eyes, glancing around to see if he was being watched. Washing up, after last night, didn't help. He hadn't gotten a wink of sleep either. Every time he tried he'd wind up right back in the same scene over and over and over again. There was still pressure in his chest from the recent one, when he'd accidentally fallen asleep while cleaning his Winchester.

Everything was so suffocating. He couldn't finish this Mongolia business now, not with Harding in the picture. There really was only one thing to do. For their sakes he had to leave. Draw the bastard away from them. It was the only way he could keep them safe…

But what if Harding found out that he'd left, would he take the energy to pursue him or lash out at the League to make him come back? Tom pinched the bridge of his nose and clenched his eyes shut. He wouldn't cry, not over this, not over _him_. He'd gotten his life back in order…well, some kind of order, since he'd left home and he'd be damned if he was going to let that all slip away now. There was a way…there had to be. He just had to have the patience to figure it out, and fast.

"Tom?"

Tom spun and was met with a meek Jekyll a few feet behind him. Instantly, he tensed. Now he remembered why he hated doctors as a kid.

"What the hell do you want?"

"I don't mean to intrude, but would it be alright if we sit and have a little chat? There's something I need to tell you."

Fear lashed through him and his thoughts immediately turned to Skinner. Jekyll saw this, though, and rounded on it. "Don't worry, Rodney's fine. I just checked his temperature and it looks as if he'll recover quicker than I expected. He's being quite difficult, actually. Won't stay in the damn bed..."

Although it was welcome news, Tom's face didn't betray anything. "Oh. Good."

"Shall we?"

Sawyer reluctantly walked beside the doctor until they found a bench along the dirt path. The gardens were a comfort, impeccably well kept, and nothing like the gardens that Sawyer had seen in Washington DC, but still a comfort. They made Tom miss the humidity of the Mississippi, the wild nature, the life, the carefree atmosphere that Europe just didn't seem to have. All of a sudden, he missed the sun, missed the blue skies that he'd seen from home, lounging in the grass on a lazy summer day.

"I'm sorry," Jekyll said.

Tom turned to him, surprised and confused. "What?"

"I'm apologizing for my tone yesterday, outside of the infirmary. I'd say that the challenge of Skinner's surgery was the cause, but whether that be the case or not, it shouldn't serve as an excuse for my attitude towards you. It was uncalled for."

"Oh. Well, thanks but—"

"No buts. Please, just accept it, Tom, so we can move on."

"Alright."

Jekyll shifted in his seat, clearly looking as if he was going to say something more. Tom nearly groaned. Couldn't he just be left alone? He'd appreciated the apology, but it did nothing for his current state of mind.

"Do you remember our agreement?" Jekyll asked. "To you staying on the League?"

Tom sighed. God, how predictable was the doctor? "Yeah."

"There's more to what happened last night than what you've told us, what you're willing to tell us, isn't there?"

What did he expect to hear? Did he want Sawyer to flat out tell him everything? Would he even want to hear everything? Sawyer snorted, no one would. "How _much_ do you know about Richard Harding?"

"A fair amount. We, Hyde and myself, were confused for him for a long time, likewise as well."

"What have you heard?"

"That he's murdered people, men, women, children, blackmailed them, stolen millions, recently that he's been a serial rapist for years. I imagine the police did a lot of work to keep that piece of information out of the press for so long."

"Yeah…"

There was a pregnant pause. Tom hoped that Jekyll would say no more, but a small part of him hoped that he did. Talking helped…somewhat, even if it wasn't directly about the issue.

"You know him. Harding. Don't you, Tom?"

The accusation was made softly, but Tom still clamped his mouth shut and silenced the gasp that threatened to break loose. His jaw trembled and it was harder to keep the tears from falling, but somehow he did. How was he supposed to respond to that? Fact of the matter is that he shouldn't have to after all that's happened. He was entitled to some God damned privacy, wasn't he?

"That man's a bastard," he said, shakily. He could hardly stand to look at Jekyll in the eyes, but to prove his point he knew he had to. Jekyll was a stubborn person, and sometimes stubbornness needed to be confronted with the same. The doctor didn't say a word, effectively silenced by the clear unease that Sawyer was allowing him to see and hear. "Shit like him deserves to be brought t'justice. I'll be damned if I let him get away with anything else!"

Jekyll didn't say a word as Tom turned his head away. Part of him wanted to be left alone, but the other part wanted comfort. Part of him wanted to leave, but the other part didn't have the energy. He felt like something was tearing inside him, walls that he'd erected years ago for his own sanity. He closed his eyes and swore he could feel the fractures, cracks spreading like wildfire. Then a warm hand settled on his shoulder, and uncontrollably his face twisted into the inner agony he felt, partially shielded by his fallen hair that curtained the worst.

He wanted to keep his story locked away, like he had been doing for so long before. But all it took was one chance encounter and, he had to admit, an unfortunate chain of events that slowly ebbed away at his barriers. Time, to Tom Sawyer, was no healer. It was nothing more than a ruthless fraud, especially to someone who so desperately wanted to forget that it ever happened in the first place.

* * *

**So stupid me made all the edits in one go and tried to save it when my internet gave out on Monday morning. Lost everything, but who knows, maybe that was for the better, because I caught things I didn't see the first time in this second edit. Sorry for the delay! I'm editing the next chapter right now, so expect at least one chapter next week. I may be able to submit two, but we'll see. The rest of the story is in fragments so it may take me a little longer to get those completed. Chapter updates may have to go back to once a week instead of two. **

**I have a better idea of Harding as a character now, so I'll probably be adding more of him to let you all know what I'm talking about. Should be consistent with what there is so far. AND, next chapter we have a little bit of a surprise! But I can't say anything more than that or else you'll know what it is...if you don't have your suspicions already. **

******As always, let me know what you guys think!**  


**-Rainsaber**


	7. Secrets in Brimstone

**Chapter Seven**—Secrets in Brimstone

Richard Harding lowered the smoking barrel of a modified rifle. Ash billowed past his face, through his hair, and into the night sky. He could hear the vampire still screeching in the distance. But he didn't smile.

"Fly, mother hen," he whispered to himself. "Fly home to your chicks."

Edwards chuckled, then coughed at the rising smoke that began to pour out the windows of their warehouse. It wouldn't be long before the whole place was on the ground. "That'll teach her to put her nose where it doesn't belong."

"We'd better go now if we want to get out of this unscathed," Howell said, wiping blood from a facial cut. He wavered on his feet before Rousseau steadied him. "Bloody vampire."

"Not yet," Harding said, turning around. "We still have time to finish what we started. Rousseau, take Edwards and get that bomb in place. Once that's done we wait."

Rousseau hesitated, growled, and stalked off. Howell caught himself on the wall. Edwards turned to Harding and opened his mouth, clearly in disagreement. Bromley just took the weapon, when Harding tossed it away, and walked back into the burning building with his eyes downcast and his own mouth shut.

"Do you want to get caught?" Edwards exclaimed. "Do you want that monster to get a piece of you? What about that bloody Indian and his sword? Are you trying to get us all killed?"

"You forget what advantages I've had you cultivating over the past few months, Edwards, now do as I say."

"No! This whole plan is wrong. You're only accelerating our production because that stupid _American_ slipped through your—"

Harding had Edwards up against a wall with a knife at his throat in a second. Edwards was too shocked to finish his sentence. Harding was livid. "We leave when _I _say we leave," the man shouted. "Now do what I've told you before I decide we've one too many to keep track of in our escape!"

He shoved Edwards to the ground and watched as he picked himself up and stumbled away. Once the scientists left, Harding closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of sulfur and flame. Such a complicated matter, human relationships were. But a smile finally grew on his face when he thought of what he'd be in possession of soon, what he'd finally be able to have, of what he'd been denied of for so long. Soon, he'd remind everyone around him of the name that once inspired a torturous fear in men and women alike, all for what the world turned him into, made him out to be.

* * *

Mina's descent from the darkened skies was far from graceful. She growled, at one of the crewmen who moved to assist her up the ramp, unintentionally as she stumbled in picking herself up. Damn to hell the man who created guns.

"Mina!" Henry called as he approached.

Inwardly, she cringed. He had, most likely, seen everything. She forced herself to calm down for his sake and grabbed hold of the crewman who walked beside her.

"Inform the captain that we have a lead, one that will expire within the hour if we do not act quickly."

Jekyll took the crewman's place when he ran off, bombarding her with concern while he ushered her further inside. "What was that? Are you alright? Are you injured?"

"Tired, Henry," she breathed. "I'll be fine."

"No. Stop," he said, laying gentle hands on her shoulders. She halted and let a breath loose as she leaned against the wall. There was still a dull ache where that explosion had caught her in the side. And it hadn't gone away. "You _were_ injured, I can see it in your eyes."

"It's nothing," she panted. "Just a graze on my…" Groggily she pressed a hand to her thigh and parted her tattered skirts. As inappropriate as it was, she was vaguely aware that Henry was a doctor and that it would have been nothing new for him to see. When she looked down, surprise covered her face. Henry gasped aloud. Shrapnel from the explosion was still wedged in her leg and lower side, blood lazily dripping. The wound itself was trying to heal, and taking an inordinate amount of time to do so. What had she been hit with? "Strange…by now it—should…have…"

"Mina!" a new voice called. She was falling, but only for a short time. Voices grew faint. She was being carried. Her head fell against a shoulder. The last thing she saw before unconsciousness claimed her was a firm jaw. She confirmed that it was Henry carrying her due to the faint chemical smell. Almost imperceptibly, she smiled.

* * *

Tom loaded his pistols and shoved them in their holsters, grabbed his Winchester and stalked out of his room with his coat flapping behind him. Mina was the last straw. Seeing her like that was enough. He was going to end this with Harding once and for all. And if it meant his own end, then so be it, but he sure as hell wasn't going to go down without a fight, and without taking the god-forsaken bastard with him.

* * *

Jekyll opened his box of serum that Nemo had brought to him. With an emotionless mask on he pulled out a full dose of the serum and closed the lid–_Good, Henry_—A crewman exited with the box for safekeeping. He turned to Nemo's doctor who was preparing to clean and dress Mina's injuries, giving him a nod of acknowledgment before he made to leave. He couldn't bear to look at her again. He stopped, however, when Skinner called to him from across the room.

"Jekyll," he slurred. "Wha' happened? Wha's goin' on?"

Henry didn't turn back, but spoke over his shoulder before he left. "I don't know. But we're going to find out." Hyde grinned.

* * *

Nemo, reluctantly, left his first mate in charge of the Nautilus and accompanied Jekyll, Sawyer, and a handful of his own men onto the docks. Fortunately, the heavy smoke taking to the skies was evidence enough where Mrs. Harker had fled from. Nemo barked, over the noise, for them to fan out as they drew closer to the flaming building. Whatever the business of these men, he intended for it to end tonight. Enough blood had been spent within the past twenty-four hours.

* * *

The team split. Nemo commanded his own men around the front and Sawyer and Jekyll went around the back. The closer they drew in their inspection around the building, the more Hyde was calling for Jekyll to take the serum. Jekyll resisted the urge at first and attempted to surmise as much as he could before he let Hyde loose. Sawyer led around the corner and Hyde's shouts grew to screams of warning.

Jekyll's panic surged and he fumbled for the vial of serum in his pocket, coughing from the smoke. He only managed to uncork the substance before a large blast destroyed the wall of the flaming building to their left. The blast threw the bricks from the wall, as well as Sawyer and Jekyll, flying into the wall of another building across the pathway.

* * *

All was still. The warehouse stood upright, though precariously. There was no movement for some time. Sawyer's head pounded. He could barely hear a thing. When he finally opened his eyes he viewed the world as if through the opposing end of a magnifying glass. He grunted in pain and tried to move but wound up slumping back in a coughing fit because of all the smoke. There was a great deal of debris pinning him down and he heard a loud creaking sound from somewhere above him.

"Jekyll," he tried to call. "Nemo?"

No one responded. Tom tried to shift his body but barely bit back a shout.

He managed to drag his head down and saw a piece of metal poking into his side, one that wouldn't come loose too easily under all of the wreckage. His shoulder felt out of place too.

That was, until someone grabbed it and pulled it back into place, roughly pulling his body free from the rubble. He couldn't suppress that cry of pain, but it didn't seem to stop the man who proceeded to drag him out of the burning alley. He wasn't sure of how long he'd been dragged through the streets, nor of which directions they'd taken, but, thankfully, the air began to clear and Tom could breathe easier the farther they went.

He lay still as the man dragged him along, feigning unconsciousness, waiting for the right moment to get free of him, until he had enough energy. When the man turned down a backstreet, his body lurched into action…or as well as he could, managing, at least, to trip the man and send him flying onto his side. Tom pulled one of his pistols as he wrestled with the man on the dirty ground. Much to his surprise, the man quickly regained control and roughly threw Sawyer off of him, a good few feet away. The colt clattered away somewhere on the cobblestones.

He looked up and saw Rousseau stomping over to him with an unnatural fire in his eyes. The scientist let an inhuman growl escape his mouth before lunging at the American, picking him up and throwing him against a wall. Tom tried to get free but his side screamed in protest of his struggling. Rousseau put his face near his and let another growl out. Tom stilled, wondering what the hell he was dealing with.

"'Ave you ever vondered vat vould come of a cross between a vampire and a monster?" Rousseau hissed.

The initial shock wore off as Sawyer gazed at the creature before him in better light, fangs the size of daggers, nails the length of short stiletto knives, his body bulked almost as big as Hyde, but his skin a sickly pale color with a tint of blue to it. _This_ was what they were up to all this time, actually continuing Moriarty's work. Tom scowled.

"Always wondered, not sure I wanna know if they look as ugly as you." Sawyer's voice seemed a little raspier than he wanted it to sound. But, of course, being held off of the ground by whatever it was that Rousseau had mutated himself into would probably make anyone's voice either worse than his or inaudible.

Rousseau let out a louder growl before he angrily threw Sawyer flying down the sidewalk, landing flat on his back. Tom felt his head smack on the ground and when he opened his eyes he saw black dots before him, and Rousseau towering behind them. Sawyer tried to rise but could barely get a few inches from the ground through the pain.

"Ve vill 'ave to teach you acceptable manners, boy. Lecon un*, you speak vhen spoken to. I imagine you vould not come to love ze taste of your own blood?"

Tom felt his brows furrow together. God, was he tired of being thrown around. "Who—re you tryin'a pull? Jack the Ripper?"

Rousseau growled again. "…Purposefully mistaking a Frenchman for an Englishman, zat vould be in violation of lecon deux**!"

Rousseau grabbed Sawyer and shoved him against the back wall, this time plunging the long nails of his hand into the spy's left shoulder. An involuntary scream left Sawyer's mouth, but Rousseau's hand quickly clamped over the boy's throat before it became too loud. Tom's breath caught and he choked for any sliver of air he could get through Rousseau's tight grip.

"Rejoice that I 'ave not yet become contagious, or you vould be in a deal of much greater pain, boy! Now stop your useless fighting. You are coming wiz me, vezer you like it or not!"

Tom could barely register the hot breath of Rousseau in front of him. He didn't have any energy left. And without air he couldn't bide his time and build up reserves for later. Against his will everything started to go black.

Then he heard the loud shot of a rifle. In fact, it sounded like his Winchester. The hold on his throat tightened, a loud inhuman scream rang in his ears, and the nails in his shoulder, partially holding him up, shifted to the left. Before the grimace was set in stone on his face, Rousseau threw Tom sideways to the brick corner, and from what he could still hear, flew over the wall and bounded away into the night. For a moment Tom knew nothing, could make his body do nothing as he reflexively gasped for air. So much pain…he moaned aloud as he started coming back to his senses. And he really wished he hadn't. The alley steadily grew back into focus. Rousseau had long since gone, but to his unease, Tom was not alone.

There was a man crouching in front of him, trying to check the wounds in his shoulder. The hat on his head shadowed his face, making it impossible to see who his savior was. Sawyer instinctively grabbed his remaining pistol and put it in plain sight for the man. He seemed somewhat surprised that Sawyer was aiming a gun at him, but Tom slipped on the hard façade and glared at the man who touched him, uninvited. The man lifted his hands, not doubting the ferocity of the spy.

"Back up," Tom said. It was a little difficult to talk, but the man conceded a good few feet and watched with unease as the spy unsteadily picked himself up, using the wall for support. Tom admitted that he should have leaned against the wall longer, but stood on his own just for the intimidation factor. "You chase him off?"

The man nodded silently.

Well, at least this guy wasn't bent on dragging him to Harding or killing him…"Who the hell are you?"

"If that gun of yours wasn't standing between us I'd happily take my hat off, Tom."

Tom's jaw clenched, unwillingly. His heart leapt before he was ready and the hold on his gun wavered a bit. That accent was unmistakenable, but he pushed the hope back at the impossibility. The man he hoped it would be was most certainly dead and buried in Africa. More frustrating, his arm was shaking with strain from the weight of one colt. Inwardly, he cursed at himself. He was exhausted and near the point of collapsing. So, reluctantly, Tom let the gun drop to his side, confidant that he could raise it in a second if need be.

"Take off your hat," he said, dangerously. If this was a trick, this guy would be dead in a second if he tried anything. The American was not in the mood for anything else, more on edge now than he had been within the past week.

Compliant, the man slowly raised his left hand and removed the hat. The light from the nearby fire and streetlights illuminated the grey hair flecked with white strands on his head. Then came the black eyebrows still clinging to their young years before graying, and below those were the warm brown eyes that Sawyer had seen so many times, relentlessly fading into the depths of his nightmares, forever refusing to come at his calling. But this time they were full of life and purpose that made Sawyer's throat go dry. The white beard was still there and Sawyer recognized his clothes for the first time, the exact same that they, as the League, had—before they—

The gun dropped first, and Sawyer's shocked body followed in a close second. His head was filled with the last few moments that Quatermain and he had shared before that last wheezed breath left his aged body_—He died—He was dead—dead, Dead, DEAD!_

Sawyer threw the memory from his head and visibly shook himself back into reality. Crouched in front of him was the visible proof that Allan was alive and well, almost as if they had never buried him. And the old hunter was looking at him, not through him or around him. That hand was on his shoulder, almost afraid to pull him closer or let go.

"It's alright, boy," he said.

"…Allan?" Sawyer choked out. Was he finally losing it? Was it another one of Harding's schemes to lure him somewhere?

"It's me." Quatermain said it with that signature smile and mischievous glint in his eyes, but there was something else there that Tom wouldn't identify. He had wished for that smile in the few tough spots he found himself in since they left Africa and here it finally was, after all this time. Angrily, he retrieved his gun and pointed it right in Quatermain's face.

"What's our 'yank' style of shooting, like you put it?" he asked, the edge of hysteria obvious. "Answer or I swear I'll shoot your God damned head off!"

* * *

The look in Sawyer's eyes told Allan that the spy was serious, and not delirious, not yet at any rate. As incredulous as Quatermain felt at the moment, he bit back a hot retort at having to deal with an apparently different Sawyer than he was accustomed to. He thought for a minute about what Sawyer was referring to, but instantly remembered their conversation on the conning tower of the Nautilus all those long months ago. A warm smile graced his features at the recollection, but didn't reach his guilt-ridden eyes.

"Well," Allan started, softly. "You fire enough bullets and hope to hit the target."

"Teach me how to shoot…" Sawyer said, cocking the pistol. "Step. By. Step."

Allan resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but they went skyward in frustration. He knew that arguing with someone in search of hard proof was useless. And it wasn't as if the boy didn't deserve the truth. He_ had_ come back from the dead after all. That fact alone was enough work for a proper explanation. If it meant playing this game with Sawyer to get through to him, Allan knew there was no argument he could conjure up to fight it. And he was playing with fire here. The boy certainly looked worse for wear and needed Jekyll's attention soon. He had to figure out a way to convince Sawyer of who he was without losing him in the process, and quick.

"Alright," he conceded. "Step one: Aim." He stopped and watched Sawyer for any gesture of being correct or wrong. The boy was as still as a lion silently deciding whether or not to pounce. Allan went on without the assurance he realized he wouldn't get from the spy. "Step two: you adjust for wind and target movement. Both of those are easy."

"Here's the part that's not," Sawyer whispered, eyes glossy.

"You have to feel the shot. Take your time with it. You have all the time you need…All the time in the world…Tom."

"Eyes open boy…" Sawyer said, expectantly.

There was a second of silence, but broken by a small chuckle at the memories of both incidents between the two by Allan. "I can't protect you all the time."

The boy took a couple of deep breaths, shaking more so now than before. Sawyer's head slowly started to shake from side to side. Allan couldn't tell whether the tears were a good or bad sign. The superficial wounds didn't worry Quatermain now. The boy was shaking, sweating, and on edge as if he were sick or about to be.

"You're dead…" the American moaned.

"Tom—"

"You're supposed to be dead!" he shouted.

"I was, but not anymore." All that Allan wanted to do was grab the boy's pistol and throw it. But he had an instinctive feeling that this colt was the last shred of sanity Tom was able to hold onto. Whatever had transpired since Mongolia had certainly weighed heavily on the boy, and somehow he was going to find out what it was. Seeing that strong American spy that he remembered reduced to this bothered him a great deal. Cautiously, Quatermain reached out and laid a light hand on top of the barrel. "Now," he began calmly, with a slight glare. "I will be again if you don't lower that damn gun."

Sawyer complied, slowly. But the defiant look never left his face. Allan didn't understand why until he felt a blow across his face that knocked him off his feet. In shock, the old hunter raised a hand and gingerly inspected the broken skin on his cheek. Warily he turned his eyes back to the young spy, a smile threatening to break loose, but that brightness was quickly squashed. Tom turned his face to the ground and closed his eyes, whispering.

"Damn you!"

The boy's entire body tensed and shook. Slowly, Quatermain shuffled across the ground over to the young American. As soon as he laid a hand on him, Sawyer tried to fight, throwing fists and arms, legs flailing. It was hard work trying to get a firm hold of the boy, but somehow he did, his arms capturing Tom's and pinning the boy to his own chest. He still struggled, audibly near the point of hyperventilating.

"Stop it, Sawyer," he whispered, firmly. "Calm down."

"You're not—," he gasped. "You're not—"

"I'm right here, boy, as real as I'm going to get. Now, breathe!"

It angered Allan to hear and feel what came out of Sawyer next. Horrible sobs of pain left his lips and gushes of tears fell from his clenched eyes. He was trying to stop himself but Allan could tell that something to the likeness of a dam had just broken open in the boy. All he could do was weather the storm, so he turned Sawyer's body more into his own and curled protective arms around him, rubbing his shoulder lightly in comfort.

"Damn you," he wailed. "Damn you to hell!"

Allan sighed and rested his head on top of Tom's. "It's alright. I know I deserve it. Three months is a long time to stay dead and suddenly reappear as if it were all some bloody joke. The best that I can say is I didn't mean to come back. But that doesn't make things any better now does it?"

"I don't care!"

"Oh, but I know you do. Too much maybe for some bloody fool like me. God knows I don't deserve it."

"…how…you…please don't let this—" came the whispered reply.

"Sshh, it's alright. You Americans really can be daft sometimes. I told you that Africa wouldn't allow me to die, remember?"

"…You…told the _League_, not me! God, you…Englishmen can be as…stubborn as a bull caught by his horns." Allan smiled at the strength that had started to return to the American's voice.

"Well, call it stubbornness or divine intervention if you want, but I am real, son," he said, softer. Tom looked up, eyes still wet and face pale under the streetlight, but thoroughly aware and present. Quatermain wiped the boy's cheeks dry with two thumbs. "Quite real. This is no dream."

* * *

Sawyer's throat constricted for a second. It was just an old habit of Allan's, using that familial term, but it was something that Sawyer so desperately wanted to hear. And even though he heard it, his heart couldn't really accept it for what he wanted it to mean, because he knew Allan didn't mean it in that way. Reluctantly, he pulled away from the older man and gave him a good long hard look. Then he turned his face down and wiped at his eyes, embarrassed at the sudden break that had just happened.

"You haven't been dead three months?" he asked, shakily.

"No I haven't. But that's a story I prefer to tell only once. Let's save it for later. Seems to me Rousseau won't be coming back anytime soon, but what he had to do with you is a curious matter to say the least." Allan hooked a finger under Tom's chin and lifted his face. "Eyes up," he said, gently.

Reluctantly Tom obliged. "Story best left to be told once, later."

"There's no shame in it, you know. Being human means being vulnerable. You can't change that."

"I know. Don't change a thing though."

"Maybe."

Tom needed air. Suddenly the walls of the buildings lining the street seemed too close. He wanted the comforts of the Nautilus. But he grimaced when he tried to stand, nearly falling over if it hadn't been for Quatermain's quick hand. His own side was wet and, for the life of him, he couldn't recall why. He groaned aloud when his head started spinning again.

"Easy, now," the old hunter warned. "Let's just see if you're fit to walk on your own two feet."

"Who's gonna' be the judge of that?"

"Well certainly not you! If age has taught me anything, it's don't leave a man with a stubborn spirit in charge of his own body."

"Yeah? Well…who do you think that stubbornness from us Americans came from?"

"Probably those damned French that helped you in that little rebellion of yours."

Sawyer shut his mouth and let Allan check his shoulder. While the hunter did so, Sawyer couldn't stop his mind from wandering back to Rousseau. He'd meant to bring Tom somewhere. In the pit of his stomach, he knew exactly where he would have wound up had Allan not intervened, and even though he'd been asking for it earlier, now the thought just terrified him, made him shudder, just as the removing of the blindfold had last night. And then a thought occurred to him. After all of this, Tom still had yet to see the man's face…

"Tom?"

Sawyer looked up, realizing he had been miles away, yet again, and apologized. The small puncture wounds would heal of their own accord and posed no immediate threat. As Allan moved his other shoulder it felt sore, but, thankfully, in the right place.

"You dislocate this thing recently?"

"Not me…him," Sawyer said, gesturing to the wall that Rousseau jumped. "Seems to be in the right place now…Lie back."

He eased the spy down onto his back and lifted the shirt up. Tom shivered at the cold air and nearly jumped, but clenched his teeth shut, apologized, and tried to imagine himself back on the Nautilus. Allan paused for only a second before he started looking at where the piece of metal had pierced his side. Allan quickly searched his coat pocket for a clean handkerchief and wiped as much of the blood away as he could to get a better look at the wound. He cringed and a passing look of sympathy crossed his face.

"This might hurt—"

"Just do what needs doin'," Sawyer said.

Allan hesitated for only half a second before firmly pressing the handkerchief into the wound to stem some of the blood flow. His pressure didn't waver when he saw a small grimace trace the spy's face and heard a grunt of pain pass his lips, because it had to be done. He brought one of Tom's hands to cover the wound in place of his own.

"Think you can hold that until we get back to the Nautilus?"

"Yeah," Tom said between his teeth. "You…know about…the League?"

"Yes, but I don't expect they know about me. Should be quite the affair." Quatermain helped Sawyer into a sitting position, but even his head swam at that slight movement. "Can you stand on your own?"

"Don't…think so," he panted.

"Alright. Just do your best to stay awake, son. And keep pressure on that wound." Allan placed a hand around his back and another underneath his legs, scooting Tom fully against his body.

"Whoa—What're ya' doin'?"

"No time for arguments." Swiftly, and in one seemingly fluid movement, Sawyer was swept upwards. Allan took a second to adjust to the weight in his arms and then started the trek back to the flaming warehouse for starters. "I imagine Skinner'll start a field day with this affair."

Sawyer suddenly let loose a bark of laughter, and immediately regretted it.

"What the ruddy hell is so God-damned funny?" Allan asked.

"Now I now it's really you," Sawyer whispered.

* * *

*-Lesson One (French)

**-Lesson Two (French)

**Hard not to see that coming? Well, in light of the rest of the story brewing in my head, bringing Quatermain back is kind of necessary. From now on expect one chapter a week. We'll see if I can get the next chapter written within the next week, had a rough couple of days this weekend. Life after college just sucks right now, especially when no one wants to hire you.**

**If there are ANY continuity issues, I apologize and please point them out. This chapter went through a number of revisions so it is quite possible that I missed something. Also, I kind of went a little character crazy in this one, as I'm sure you've noticed, with the switching of perspectives like a roulette wheel. I don't see that becoming common or used again anytime soon, though I think I may consider it much later. Did it throw anyone off? Annoy you?**

**And one more small note on Tom's eye color. I don't know why, but I meant to respond to it and somehow I totally spaced. Sorry! I just went with the blond hair blue eye thing on instinct. But Tom's eye color isn't really that important. In fact I don't think it'll be mentioned again so whatever color you'd rather imagine is totally fine by me. Have at it :)**

**As always, let me know what you think!**

**-Rainsaber**

**Ps. I hate writing accents. Again.**


	8. Wisp of Reality

**Chapter Eight**—Wisp of Reality

Nemo fumed as one thing after another went wrong. First, the building had collapsed onto itself, destroying any evidence left behind. Second, two of his men had been injured in the wreck. Third, the doctor and American spy were nowhere to be seen. And Fourth, none of the other men he sent out in search for them had reported back yet. In the distance he could faintly hear whistles and shouts of the fire brigade approaching. The captain sighed, just about to call a retreat for the safety of his crew and self. But then he heard shouts further down the docks, and saw three of his missing crew half-carrying a stumbling man.

Immediately he set off into the darkness after ordering the rest of his men back to the Nautilus. When he drew closer his heart sank at the appearance of only one of his compatriots. The doctor looked to have sustained only minor injuries, but looked quite shaken up.

"Where is Agent Sawyer?" he asked.

"We've searched the area, captain," one the mates answered. "We were only able to locate Dr. Jekyll."

Nemo grit his teeth together and looked around. "Do you remember what happened, doctor?"

"Not m-much. There was a-an explosion—"

"Yes, we heard as much."

"Tom must have g-gotten the worst of it, as he was ahead of me. But we found no...nothing, save his rifle."

Nemo spared a glance at the weapon once it was brought before him. It had a few additional scrapes and smudges of dirt, but there was no blood, nothing to indicate the condition of its owner.

"There was no evidence of his whereabouts?" Nemo continued.

"We found nothing, captain."

"And yet, 'nothing' would suggest that he is still alive. Is there a possibility that he could have escaped the worst of the explosion?"

"Perhaps," Jekyll ventured. "But it's not like Tom to leave someone if he were pursuing one of Harding's men. You and I both know that."

Nemo sighed, his heart sinking at each passing moment. "Then he has been taken."

"But why? If that blast was no accident…What-what do we do?"

"What _can_ we do, doctor?"

Although it was reality that he was impressing upon Dr. Jekyll, he could see that the desired effect had not sprouted. Instead, Jekyll's face changed, hardened. Defiantly, he shrugged off both crewmen holding him upright, swaying slightly, but managing enough to hold his own. "We can't leave him out there! He could be severely injured."

"Yet we have no knowledge of his whereabouts and that company of firemen approaching will quickly hinder and compromise any actions we still have the time to take. Your condition as well, doctor, will not aid a recovery of Agent Sawyer at present. We simply do not have the man power for such a search."

Jekyll looked as if he wanted to say more, but restrained himself, gradually deflating. Nemo couldn't say he didn't feel the same. If only he hadn't sent his men back…but for the greater good, it had to be done…hadn't it?

"Two more of my men are still missing," Nemo said, softer. "It is possible they may have some knowledge as to what may have occurred. But for our current condition, we must retreat if any future progress is to be gained."

Decisions such as this had always fallen to him to make. And it had always been _for _the greater good that swayed his choice. Now was no different, even with the hesitation he felt in his heart. Agent Sawyer had been something special to them all, and especially so with present circumstances as they were. He had depended on the League and, in other ways, the League also depended on him. It seemed, that at every crossroad in this domestic mission, that they were being attacked at all possible angles. It bothered Nemo a great deal to know that an invisible man had been shot, that a vampire had been, seemingly, mortally wounded, and a young spry agent from the Americas taken so easily, more so that all of this had befallen close friends.

Suddenly, Nemo turned his head and noticed the missing crewmen coming towards him, empty handed. He kept his gaze averted from the doctor and was about to give the final order, but stopped at the sight of the youngest servant, his face paler than normal.

"What has happened?" he questioned the young man, directly. "What have you seen?"

"A ghost," the boy whispered.

Then Nemo looked from where his two missing men had come and noticed a large man approaching in the shadows. Instantly he drew his sword and moved forward, three men at his back. The figure stopped.

"Identify yourself!" he ordered.

And it was by the light of the clear night sky that he saw exactly what the boy had claimed to have seen. His grip on his sword wavered and he had no power of speech for the span of a few moments. He heard a gasp and shuffle behind him but he did not turn. His gaze was transfixed upon the visage of the man they had buried months earlier.

"Quatermain?" he had asked. But how was it possible? Had a recent prayer of his been answered by Kali? Had she given him what he had asked of for Agent Sawyer's sake?

"Nemo," he acknowledged. "Now I won't stand for the gawking until after this one's been tended to. Doctor?" Only after the initial shock had Nemo realized the deathly pale form of Agent Sawyer actually in his arms, shivering. Immediately, Jekyll burst into action, still somewhat shaken by both ordeals, and Nemo had to marvel at the doctor's tenacity. After a few tense moments of observation, Jekyll started pulling the old hunter along the docks. Nemo followed closely.

"He's lost a significant amount of blood," Jekyll rambled. "And he's not even conscious—How many injuries?"

"Cut in the side, puncture wounds in the shoulder, and a bump on the head from what I can tell—"

"Again?" Jekyll exclaimed.

Quatermain turned and glared at the doctor. "Again?"

"Last night we uh—had a bit of an incident. He was rather lucky to walk away from it without a concussion. Now I'm a little worried."

"Bloody American," the hunter hissed.

It had been luck that saved them from being spotted that night. Nemo was surprised that he was still on his own two feet after such a shock. He wouldn't voice it aloud, but Allan's sudden and abrupt reappearance had deeply disturbed him. There was no possible way that they had buried a man alive in the African wilderness. So what was the cause? Was it actually supernatural? Had he been the cause? And why had Quatermain decided to return? More so, why now?

Nemo decided, as they entered the bay of the Nautilus and prepared to submerge, that he needed something stronger than his beloved and sweet nightly orange tea.

* * *

"I don't care what your orders are," Mina spat. "I am fully capable of speech as well as standing on my own two feet, and if you do not remove yourself from me you will wind up with an injury yourself!"

The infirmary physician cowered for a moment and tried to rally himself. A low chuckle from the other side of the room drew her attention from the infuriating man in front of her. Blankets that covered the outline of a reclining man shifted in a cot.

"I wouldn' put it past her," Skinner said, slightly groggy. "Fiesty one, she is."

"B-but sir and lady, m-my orders come strictly from the captain—"

"Then it is I who will answer to your captain," she said, drawing herself up to her full height without much trouble. The wounds had fully healed by now and she felt perfectly fine, even without the stitches put into her side and thigh…which had since fallen out on their own. Being in the infirmary any longer, especially with a conscious Skinner and physician who wanted her to rest for another couple of days was madness.

And yet the poor physician still, defiantly, stood in front of her.

"I will only say this one more _time_," she growled. "Get out of my way!—"

What happened next was both a blur and memorable turn of events. Mina had wanted out of the infirmary because she wanted answers and news. She'd been rushed away as soon as she stepped foot inside the ship and had later learned that the rest of the League had left in hopes of capturing the men she fled from. Hours passed since then. And Mina was not a very patient person when it came to things such as this. But, as it turned out, her answers came to her.

A shrill and loud gasp tore free from her lips, and for the first time in years, she fell back in fright when Allan Quatermain burst into the room with a bleeding and unconscious Agent Sawyer in his arms. Her head whipped around to follow his movements as he laid the boy down on an empty cot. Her eyes raked over his appearance, studying every minute detail, until a heavy hand on her shoulder pulled her attention. Henry didn't look any better; cuts, scrapes, bruises and a general lack of energy worried her further.

"Mina," he breathed. "What are you doing up—"

"Recovered," she said, turning her attention back to the ghost in the room.

Skinner moved in his bed and looked around at the party that had invaded the infirmary, his vision partially blocked by a standing screen. "Someone gonna' tell me wha's wiv all the fuss now?"

No one answered Skinner. Instead, Allan peered around the screen and for a moment, neither man moved. But Mina's hearing picked up Skinner's quickened heart and slight trembling from the rustle of the bed sheets. Then, he exploded into a fit.

"Bloody Christ on a cross," he yelled. "I've los' it. At's it, I'm done! Pu' me in _fucking_ Bedlam I'm seein' ghos's!"

"Get a hold of yourself, Skinner," Allan groused. "I'm no bloody ghost!"

"Bu' _you're dead!_ They know it, I know it, Sawyer don't believe it, but God blimey does that mean _I'm_ the one who's really dead?"

"You are not _dead_, Mr. Skinner," Mina said.

"Then you see this! You see what I'm seein', right? I ain't los' it yet—I'm still breav'in?"

"Enough!" Henry called from Tom's bedside. "All of you. Now whoever is able to, I want out of this room immediately so I can do my work without an audience."

"Sorry, doctor," Allan said. "But you might need my help with this one if he wakes up."

"I dare say I might." Henry rifled through his medical bag and allowed Quatermain to stay, but had shooed the rest of them out once Skinner was settled back into his own bed. "Out with the rest of you, now!"

But before he closed the door he paused to look at Mina. He hadn't hidden anything from her in that one glance. The disbelief was there, subdued as it was for the present matter at hand. She shared her own and when the door closed, she felt her worry for both Henry and Tom deepen. Things had become infinitely more complicated since Africa, and she wasn't sure how she felt on the matter as of yet.

* * *

Once Tom's condition stabilized, Allan allowed Jekyll a bit more privacy and stepped out into the darker hallway, closing the door behind him. Mina scrutinized him from a corner, barely containing an outright glower. Nemo sat opposite the infirmary and had the decency to offer him a seat. Without a word Allan took it and tried, though unsuccessful, to calm some of his rampant nerves. Already, back in their company, he felt like he'd aged another ten years…but Tom proved to him that he actually needed to be here, that his resurrection did, indeed, have purpose. But whatever purpose that was still remained annoyingly elusive. Allan set his jaw and repositioned himself, swearing that it wouldn't stay that way for long.

Nemo, cleared his throat, bringing Allan back to the present moment. Mina had, by that point, seated herself by the infirmary door, visually calmer.

"I never thought," Nemo started. "That what you said at Gray's residence was anything beyond the metaphorical, my friend."

There was caution in the captain's tone. Quatermain didn't blame him for it. He did just appear out of nowhere. But it was bloody hard not to when he finally locates the League and he finds Sawyer about to be dragged off to God knows where with the rest of them hindered from action that they would, no doubt, had taken if they knew. There was no room for sugarcoating it, and it wouldn't have been his way of doing things in the first place if he had the chance. But if he had the choice he would have it the other way around for the boy's sake. Allan could still hear the agent's harsh breathing near his ear, feel the trembling against his own body, and see the damage that had been done, or at least part of it. That was the last thing he wanted. And he had gotten it, like a ton of bloody bricks.

Just then the door to the infirmary opened and closed. Jekyll emerged, paler with his brow glistening. Mina looked like she was about to rise but the doctor was quicker with his words.

"His physical injuries should heal just fine."

That was some relief. The bleeding gash in the boy's side scared him for a second while Jekyll cleaned it. "But?" Quatermain pressed.

Jekyll let out a breath of air. "I worry about his mental state. Was he conscious when you found him, Allan?"

"Quite lucid, if that's what you're getting at. Hooked me across the face when he finally realized I wasn't part of some ruddy dream."

"Can't say I don't blame him," Jekyll muttered with an open glare.

Allan stared back and stood his ground, managing at least to control the volume of his voice. "Do you hear anything other than _regret_, doctor?"

"Gentlemen," Mina interrupted. "I believe we've had enough tension to fill this entire ship for the evening. Arguing will only further exasperate the obvious. Might we settle for a simple explanation and be done with it presently?"

Jekyll sighed, swaying on his feet. This time Mina was on her feet, steadying him. "She has a point."

"Have you seen my physician," Nemo added. "As I earlier suggested, doctor?"

"Of course, he hasn't," Mina said. She tried to guide him back into the room, but he was having none of it.

"I'm alright, for the moment. I give you my word I'll see him once we're finished here."

"Consider us finished then," Allan said, standing. "I told Sawyer I'd rather only relate this little tale once. Is it enough, right now, to know that I am, quite obviously, alive and breathing, not a specter of your imaginations?"

"As long as nothing sinister is at work in this," Mina threatened.

But Allan, as before, stood tall, bearing the scrutiny. "Well, you would know, Mrs. Harker. Wouldn't you?"

"Perhaps," she drawled.

* * *

Tom woke up with a splitting headache. The room was dim, lit only by the soft flame of candles, so his eyes slid open easily. But his vision remained blurry, no matter what he tried to focus on. He knew he'd been put through the ringer because it was hard to ignore the dull and steady ache of pain. But it also wasn't sharp, which meant he'd been drugged. At least that accounted for the blurry vision.

Another thing he noticed was that he wasn't in his own bed. Whatever he was lying on was uncomfortable, unyielding, stiff, and cold. The only comfort he felt was from the rough blanket that he felt covering his body. His head felt thick and sluggish. Other than who he was and splinters of what he guessed happened to him last, he couldn't remember a thing.

_"You shouldn't be afraid."_

He was seeing multiple places, some familiar, some not. He heard voices, some louder than the others. But nothing was coming together to make sense. And it frustrated him for a split second…before he recognized one voice above all the others.

_"Ten years, Thomas."_

A shudder passed through him. He was back…was he really back? It couldn't be.

_"Stop your useless fighting. You are coming wiz me, vezer you like it or not!"_

He drew in a sharp take of air and squeezed his eyes shut tight. No, no, no, no, no—is that what happened? Where was he? Why was he laying down? Why was he in pain? Where was he feeling pain? Why couldn't he remember what happened? Was he the only one? What about the League? Had Harding just taken what he wanted and left?

Then he heard something more frightening, the soft jolt of a chair next to where he lay. He was not alone. If it was possible, he pressed the lids of his eyes tighter together and he folded his lips inward. All he wanted was to be left alone. What more could that bastard take from him?

"Tom?"

His eyes sprung open, and instantly some of the tension faded when he saw those familiar features that brought him such a quick comfort. "Allan," he breathed.

The old hunter leaned forward and Tom felt a warm hand slip between his and the coarse blanket. "Right here, boy."

He hadn't imagined it. This was real, wasn't it? He was feeling pain so it had to be. Allan was really by his bedside, and that had to mean that he was in the safe depths of the Nautilus. That also had to mean that Rousseau hadn't succeeded. He was safe. Allan saved him. He was really here, alive, and breathing. Tears leaked out the corner of his eyes, but he couldn't help it. The fear of such a possibility was just too much.

Quatermain brushed some of his hair back, and as much as Tom wanted to close his eyes and commit the soft touch to memory, they remained wide open. "Is the pain—"

"You're," Tom started, voice quiet. "…real?"

Allan almost smiled in the dim light. "Thought we settled that earlier."

It certainly felt real. But if it was real, why couldn't he remember Allan in his last memories? Why couldn't he remember the old hunter saving him? The relief he felt on seeing Quatermain died with the lack of an answer. Was he dreaming? Was his mind playing a trick on him, as it had with so many of his dreams over the past few months? It did seem so familiar, haunting even.

"Don't go," he said suddenly. His hand tightened on Allan's, afraid that it would fade as it had so many times in his imagination. "Don't disappear on me—not again, please—"

"Easy, son. Easy now!" Allan brushed the side of his head, his voice softer than normal. "Calm down. You're alright. You're going to be fine. How's the pain?"

If this really was a dream and Rousseau had taken him he'd rather stay in this fantasy as long as he could. After everything that had happened, he came to a sudden realization. He didn't want to confront Harding, not anymore. He just wanted all of it to go away, back into the recesses of everything he'd managed to forget. Hearing the voice had been torture. Seeing the face and living that nightmare again would be too much. He couldn't do it for the life of him. Huck and everyone he knew would call him a coward for it, and it wouldn't be unwarranted. But he didn't care anymore.

"I don't want to be alone," he wept. "I can't—not again! Please—"

"Tom, listen to me."

Both hands were on either side of his face now. Tom let his free hand grip the blanket that was covering him. He looked into those brown eyes as he had in his dreams, pleading for mercy, and this time sanctuary.

"You're not alone," Allan continued. "You're with the League. You've got Skinner over there in the next bed and I'm right here with you."

Guilt hit him hard. Why hadn't he ever said anything? Why hadn't he reached out? They would have helped him, wouldn't they? In his dreams they would have without question, but in reality he wasn't so sure. And at this point all he had were his dreams to draw comfort from. The warmth from the protectiveness he felt on his face would fade. He would be left to himself again, cold in the dark with no one to reach out to.

"I don't want to be alone," he whispered, voice thoroughly hoarse from the strain. "Not anymore. Not anymore—I'm sorry, just promise me—"

"Tom—"

His grip on the blanket released and latched onto Allan's arm. "Promise me you won't disappear! _Please_!"

Quatermain looked mildly surprised, and for a few tense seconds he didn't say anything. It was almost as if he were seeing Tom for the first time. Then his eyes focused again and his lips fell into a thin line as he brushed the stray tears away.

"I promise you," he whispered. "I'm not going anywhere. You're not alone. You never were and you never will be. Do you understand me?"

Tom clenched his jaw shut to keep it from shaking, forcing air in and out of his nose, as he forced his head into a nod. If this dream was going to end, he needed all the spiritual strength he could gather. Right now, this was purgatory. Hell's gates were right in front of him, his hold on consciousness slipping. The waiting wasn't as torturous as he thought it would be, not if he had Quatermain here with him.

"Good. Now go back to sleep. You need to rest."

Tom tried to relax, and it was, admittedly, a little difficult at first. But the exhaustion started taking over sooner than he expected. It may have been too much to ask for this dream to be real, but he did, practically begged for it to be so.

* * *

Henry watched the exchange from the door of the infirmary and didn't say a thing, not even when Allan turned around and acknowledged his presence with a faint narrowing of his eyes. As much as it saddened him to listen to the exchange, he did for the proof of his own mind that the source of Tom's mental instability over the past few months was, in fact, by his bedside. Once Tom had fallen back asleep, Allan pulled the blankets more securely around the young agent and stood up, heading for the door. Henry stepped aside as the hunter closed the door quietly behind him. What he didn't expect was to be cornered by the irate man.

"_That_," Quatermain spat. "Is not the Tom Sawyer that _I_ remember! What the bloody hell happened since Mongolia?"

Henry sighed, his face suddenly sad. "You did, Allan."

Quatermain's brows furrowed and his face sagged a little. All Henry could do was gently lead him away from the infirmary and promise him all he knew over a cup of something stronger than what they had previously indulged in. Sleep, it seemed, would not come easily tonight…if at all.

* * *

**Sorry for the delay this week. Too many computer problems to name and a few personal problems that popped up is the basic and clean summary. **

**While writing this chapter I had a bit of a brilliant plot bunny roll through. You will be seeing more of Mycroft Holmes soon, and until that comes along I think I'll keep the little bunny secret for a little while longer. The rest of the plot is loosely laid out in my head, all that's left at this point are the details to be hashed out. **

**But ANYWAY, this chapter is a bit of a transition-y piece. I think I'm going to slow the story down just a bit. There's a lot that happened within the past seven chapters and I think some down time to digest it all and really get down to the nitty gritty with some of these characters is going to be my game plan. **

**One chapter a week from here on out. Thanks to all my reviewers thus far, you are definitely a BIG help! I'm not entirely confident about this chapter and how it turned out, so please let me know what you think!**

**-Rainsaber**


	9. Awakening

**Chapter Nine**—Awakening

_Death was a quiet matter. The howling of the wind and the scratches of cold winter faded into nothing. The pain of his mortal body melted into a warmth of comfort that he hadn't known for years. It wasn't exactly peace that he was feeling, but he was certain that he wasn't far from it. Time was irrelevant. Each breath came and went, unmeasured. And he walked, walked for centuries it seemed. It was neither dark nor light and nothing defined where his feet fell. All he knew was that he was on a journey and that he was supposed to keep moving. _

_ But he stopped when he realized he was no longer alone. He stopped as the form of his son materialized in front of him. He wasn't sure at first whether he had imagined it, but as his Harry came closer to him he knew, without reason, that it wasn't his imagination. And a vague sense of home started to return to him in the nothingness of death. A smile bloomed on his face and spread to his son's. _

_ "Harry," Allan said. "I've missed you, son."_

_ Harry stopped short, and Allan noticed an oddity in him, that the smile didn't reach his eyes. "What are you doing here?" he asked._

_ Allan's smile faded. Wasn't Harry happy to see him?_

_ "He needs you."_

_ Had he done something wrong? "Who?"_

_ "Tom."_

_ Had he seen his father's last adventure? Had he made Harry jealous in the little affections he spared the American? "What-why? Son—"_

_ "That's why," he said, without any bitterness, as if it were a matter of fact. "That's why he needs you, father."_

_ "Harry, what are you talking about? I don't understand—"_

_ "Now is not the time for our reunion. You're not supposed to be here. Not yet."_

_ Frustration bled into his voice. "But why, Harry? I still don't understand."_

_ "You have to protect him."_

_ Silence followed. And as time passed between the two, memories raced through Allan's mind of his previous life. The guilt started reminding him of how heavy life had seemed after Harry's death, after his greatest failure. "Where I failed with you?"_

_ Harry shook his head. "You didn't fail me. You never did, so don't continue to harbor my death as if it were your own. It wasn't your fault."_

_ "…Wasn't it?"_

_ "No," he said, more forcefully. "Please, we don't have much time. What's happened between us is done. What's important now is not you or me."_

_ "But why Tom?"_

_ "Because he needs you like I did. Without you, he's dead."_

_

* * *

_

The same afterthought that passed through his mind during that experience again made it's way into his early morning musings; _what have I done?_ Why did he do it? Why did he allow Sawyer so easily into his heart? Why had he spared him the affections he normally poured out to his son when he had been alive? Had it been because of remorse, guilt, or longing? Perhaps it was all of those things, and more, but he was sure he would never know.

What he did know was that Tom reminded him of his own son. A lot. And it had been damn near impossible to ignore that. The only way he could stand the boy, without running away, was to let those familiar gestures and approaches surface. It brought as much pain as it did comfort, but it was certainly better than suffering in silence, alone as he had been in his African exile over the past…however many years it had been. It seemed too easy to lose track of time and just drift along, ignore the things that make you human, especially the pain.

The problem was specifically that pain, and the irrational fear of it. Eventually, he did run away, shut Sawyer out, and it hadn't been done intentionally. His mentioning of Harry came out by pure accident, but once he started he just couldn't stop. The happy reminisces turned into bitterness quicker than he would have liked. And he knew Sawyer picked up on it. Perhaps that was what gave him the courage to bring the conversation back to Harry after his near success with the rifle, to compensate for the failure.

Allan scoffed and swallowed a gulp of tea that Nemo had brought to his room. There was no fault in the captain's explanation. His room hadn't been disturbed since his death. It was somewhat comforting, to return to the few belongings he'd brought with him since Sanderson Reed had plucked him from the edge of the world. But the first thing he'd done once he'd been left alone was to rearrange nearly everything. The whiskey and glasses had been stowed out of sight, his desk laid bare with the exception of one of the few portraits he'd saved of his son, and the corner of his floor cleared of the failed apology letters he'd begun for Sawyer.

If Tom needed him as much as he feared, it would do no good to continue as he had before his death, wallowing in the past and things that he couldn't change. What Jekyll told him was more than enlightening. It downright scared him. And all because he hadn't calculated how much his death would have affected the boy. Frankly, he hadn't thought he meant as much as he thought he did to Tom, that it had been a figment of his imagination in his attempts to comfort himself about Harry. But he had been wrong. And just like before, with Harry's death, it had been a grave miscalculation.

He'd attributed Harry's death to the fact that he'd been too involved, not detached enough, blinded by love. This time, it appeared as if he'd been too cold. In the end it had saved Sawyer's life, but at what cost? Everything that had been done had been practical. In his final moments he didn't have time for anything else because he didn't want to hold another dead boy in his arms.

Allan pushed himself from the comfort of his desk chair and slowly made his way out the door towards the infirmary to check on Tom. The fact that he'd been delusional for a while didn't put his raging thoughts at ease. Jekyll and he had taken turns watching over him until the doctor admonished him for refusing rest. It was true that Sawyer would need him when he turned lucid, and falling over from exhaustion would not have helped either of them. But for some reason, inwardly, he dreaded seeing the young spy again. What would happen when he started asking questions? Could he answer all of them? Did he want to?

* * *

_ He'd stopped to cry on the side of the road about a mile back. No one heard him. He wasn't sure anyone could hear him. He'd screamed his voice dry a long time ago. All he wanted was the comfort of his own room and here he was, no more than a half mile away, with no energy left. He could see the nearest house, but it seemed too far for him to even manage that much. So he let himself fall, and would have cried out from the agonizing pain that it caused, but tears could only do so much. _

_ He flinched back when he became aware of someone running towards him. His gut reaction was to run, but he wasn't fast enough. Hands were on him, and he fought them off again and again, stopping only when he recognized Huck's voice in the darkness. He tried to catch his breath and calm down for his sake, but it took Tom a while to do it, because Huck's arms were secured around him, as if he were afraid Tom would actually disappear…and he wanted that so much right now. _

_ "Tom?" Huck whispered. "Where you been, Tom? What took ya so long?"_

_When Tom gained the courage to look up he saw a much older Huck than he remembered, as the agent that saved his life so many times since they left Missouri. His hair was longer, brushed back to where it should have been in his youth. But his eyes were different, older, colder. The warmth from their childhoods had vanished. And for a split second, Tom felt that penetrating gaze strike somewhere deep inside him, where he was still that scared boy that spent nearly an hour shamelessly crying in his younger brother's arms under the moonlight. He couldn't help but try to pull away._

_ "Tom—"_

_

* * *

_

When Tom woke, it was brighter in the infirmary. It didn't hurt his eyes but he had to squint for the first few minutes. Bracing himself, he pulled his body into a sitting position and leaned against the wall to stay upright. His head still swam a little but he could, at least, sit up without much trouble. There was no nausea this time and his vision was much sharper. He could focus on nearly anything or anyone in the room, which comforted him a lot more than the last time he woke to three different voices and hands moving him and touching him nearly everywhere.

He was pretty sure they'd put him to sleep after that episode. And Tom couldn't really blame them. He _had_ been hysterical. _God_, he thought, _what the hell is wrong with me?_ For the life of him, he just couldn't get a hold of himself anymore. Things had just started happening too fast for him to keep up with. Granted it was after months of painful stagnation and daily opportunities for self-deprecation and isolation, but he hadn't wished for all of this!

"Drink this," a voice said.

Tom nearly jumped out of his skin and was met with a quick apology afterwards, but he still couldn't bring himself to look up for visual proof of who was offering him the glass of water. Part of him still didn't believe it because he was scared to. He'd actually gotten what he wished for so fervently during the past few months. It should have made him feel happy, comforted, more secure, but for some reason it didn't. And he couldn't figure out why.

"You'll need it to talk," Quatermain continued. "Drink."

In a daze he accepted the glass of water and started sipping it, not realizing how thirsty he was. Once it had all been gulped down he nestled the glass between his hands to keep them busy with something. Looking up was easier after that, but it still made him uneasy.

"I wasn't dreaming?" Tom asked, quietly.

"About me?"

Tom nodded.

"No. But you were delirious for the past couple of days."

"Days?" he sputtered. _That_ was news to him.

Allan, however, didn't flinch. "Hit that hard head of yours one too many times. We're going to have to have a talk about your reckless ways."

Tom looked away and swallowed. How had two days passed without him knowing it? There was very little he actually remembered, just pieces of being conscious, being afraid, struggling for something more…but none of it made sense. He was almost afraid to ask, but he needed to know.

"How bad was it?" He left out the 'this time' he nearly added so he wouldn't get another earful.

"Well," Allan started. "Jekyll's lucky you didn't give _him_ a concussion."

Tom cringed. "Is he—"

"He's fine. You put up one hell of a fight though, boy." He smiled, despite the seriousness of the matter. "Damn near made me lose my footing a couple of times."

He tried, but came up with nothing, and a dull throbbing ache in his head started to return. "I don't remember any of it. I'm sorry—"

"You weren't the one in control. There's nothing to be sorry about."

"Allan, I don't remember anything right…How did all of this happen?"

"You sure you feel up to a story?"

"Answers would do me more good than sittin' around here waiting for Jekyll to give me the all clear."

Quatermain rose from his seat by Tom's bedside. "Best that we send for the rest of the League then. They're probably just as eager for the tale as you are. I haven't told them a thing and I think by this point it's making Mrs. Harker rather…" He paused to consider his choice of words, and then with a facial shrug, finished the thought. "Batty."

Tom barely bit back a snort of laughter that threatened to break free. The smile though committed mutiny and he had a hard time regaining his composure. And he wasn't alone. He could plainly hear Allan chuckling to himself on his way over to the door of the infirmary.

Not even ten minutes later Jekyll bustled through the door and right over to Tom in the corner. "How are you feeling? You know where you are?"

"I'm fine, Jekyll," Tom replied.

Jekyll nodded and proceeded to lift up Tom's shirt. He very nearly swung his arm around to swat his hands away, but he caught himself at the last second, giving in, instead, to the bodily flinch. But that didn't stop the determined doctor. "How's the pain?"

Tom looked down and was surprised to see a gash in his side that looked to have been re-stitched. There was definitely a LOT he didn't remember! He must have torn them sometime within the past day or so. "S'alright. Just sore."

"That's expected. Now, no more moving around for you. The last thing we want is for those to have to be re-stitched again. Are you comfortable?"

Tom nodded his head and discreetly let out a breath of relief once his shirt was put back where it belonged. Thankfully, Jekyll retreated, but returned a second later with a full glass of water.

"For your headache."

"How do you know I have a headache?"

"I'm a doctor, Tom. Trust me, I know. We need to get your hydration level back to normal."

Tom was about to argue, seeing as how he just downed an entire glass, but stopped when he noticed Allan giving him a pointed glare from across the room. Deflating into reluctant acceptance he felt his lips purse into a frown and his traitorous eyes narrow. "Ya'll're lucky I don't have to pee yet," he muttered.

"Well," Jekyll declared. "Once you do we know you're out of the danger zone. The effects of dehydration are agonizing and I think you'd agree with me when I say you've had your fair share of pain for the past week."

"Try the next year," Quatermain grumbled.

Tom just shook his head and started sipping. Mina silently entered the room, acknowledging the men with a bare nod of her head as she seated herself by the foot of Tom's bed. It was clear she wanted answers. She'd inquired about Tom's health and had quickly shut herself up after that, not even sparing Jekyll a glance, who leaned against the wall with a slight sullen expression. Tom raised an eyebrow at that. Had they argued? Something was up between those two and to him it was as plain as day. Before he could silently communicate with Quatermain though, Skinner entered the infirmary.

"Hey kid, how ya feelin'?"

"Fine," Tom dismissed. "What about you? How's your shoulder?"

"Bit on'a stiff side, but I'm on me own two feet. Still pesterin' this one for a clean bill o'healf."

Jekyll merely scowled in response. "You are far too eager, Skinner. One more day is all I ask. Now please, sit down!"

Seeing as how Tom had vacated the lower part of his cot, Skinner sat himself right on the end and made himself comfortable, patting Tom's leg. Tom didn't mind, rather felt included again and not ignored or begrudgingly accepted. Nemo arrived a short time later, and once the whole League had been assembled all eyes had turned to the elephant in the room. But rather than letting anyone make the introduction, Mina jumped right to the point, her tone warning for anything other than the truth.

"I propose that we start with the obvious," she said.

Allan raised an eyebrow. "The obvious _being_, Mrs. Harker?"

"How is it that you are alive? Our last encounter together proved you mortal and incapable of such a resurrection."

"So it did." He paused to lean against the wall and put his hands in his pockets. "But my being here in front of you is no proof of anything beyond the ordinary as far as my present condition is concerned."

"So you're not immortal?" she asked with shrewd eyes.

"No. I've made no deals with the devil or any supernatural force of nature to warrant this second chance."

"But you were dead," Tom said. He refused to let his voice waver. "I saw it. Jekyll proved it."

"And I'm not denying it. All of you buried a dead man in that African desert."

Understandably, there had been a small and collective sigh of relief from all in the room. The mere thought of burying someone alive was enough to chill a man for a lifetime. That was one type of guilt that would never fade, being the cause of someone's death. Tom knew something about that, but he, most definitely, was not ready to bear that kind of guilt. And, thankfully, he didn't have to.

"I don't understand," Jekyll started.

"Neither do I."

No one really knew what to say after that. Mina, however, picked up the slack with a soft-spoken reply. "What do you remember, Mr. Quatermain?"

Allan's eyes darkened, and Tom had to fight back a shudder. "Faces and voices of those who predeceased me," he said. "but nothing clearer than the desire to wake up and take another breath. It was that primal need that drove me from my grave, gave me the strength to dig my way out."

Tom had to look away. The way Allan was staring ahead was just too much to take. It scared him to even think of it, of clawing your way out of the dirt alive, trying to make sure you didn't die again of asphyxiation in the suffocating dark. Briefly he was reminded of that cave with Becky and Injun Joe, and he very nearly gave in to the shaking that made its way up his spine. But a hand on his shoulder stopped that and brought him right back to the Nautilus. He looked up and nodded his thanks to Skinner for being discreet. He didn't like being the center of attention anymore.

"I don't remember," Allan continued. "How long I lay on the ground after I pulled myself out, gasping for air that was all around me and so bloody hard to take in. But someone came to me under the stars, a shaman by the smell of it. He didn't say a word. He started a small fire and just sat there. And he never looked at me. He waited until my senses returned. Sight, sound, touch…until everything started to make sense."

It was hard not to fidget at first, but as Allan kept speaking it was easier not to for Tom. It seemed like crazy-talk, and Tom prided himself on spotting the crazies and liars of the bunch, but Allan was neither. What he was speaking was the God-spoken truth.

"Then, he asked me if I needed anything. I told him that I needed to know why. And his response to me was that I already knew. I fell asleep. Then I woke in a small hut on the outskirts of the village. I was fed and cared for by a blind woman and her family until I was strong enough to set out on my own. I never saw that shaman again, but I learned that he left a few possessions of mine in her keeping. I knew that after that I couldn't stay in Africa. There were still too many friends and people there that knew me, and I wanted to spare them the shock that I, unfortunately, had to share with all of you."

"Why did you come back to us?" Mina asked.

Allan paused. And he didn't say anything for a while. Tom watched as he back stepped into himself, as he'd done many times before when put on the defensive, as if trying to decide on the right thing to say. When he spoke though, it had been as vague as his entire story.

"Because I had to," he said.

_Bullshit. _"No," Tom said. "You didn't." He didn't really care that he was interjecting, or that everyone's eyes turned onto him for the moment. He needed a straight answer. "You could've settled down somewhere and lived out your life if you wanted to be alone, to leave that scare be. You could've had your peace where no one would be knocking on your door looking for another hero. But you come back to us, back to the place that sent you to that grave in the first place? That just don't make a lick of sense to me."

Allan sighed, and even though Tom would have welcomed the sharp glare that he'd occasionally been on the receiving end with from Quatermain, the old hunter's gaze softened. "It doesn't to me either. I'm sorry that I can't give you more than that, but I'm still trying to remember and make sense of it all myself. What I do know is that, for some reason, my son was ripped away from me for a second time. And all because there is something I'm still meant to do in this world, something that needs to be fixed. What that is still remains to be seen and I'd be a liar if I didn't admit that it's bloody frustrating, that I was denied the one peace a man waits a lifetime to earn."

The anger was understandable. Tom tried his hardest not to flinch. Who could blame Quatermain? Suddenly, every night that he'd silently begged for his presence, every instance of black depression where he called to mind his friend's memory and wished for something more weighed him down with heavy guilt. Who was he to ask for such a thing after everything Allan had done for the world? Every hero deserved his peace, his rest, and Tom had the audacity to pray for that presence just so he could feel comforted? The hardest part to listen to was him mention his son again. Who was he to deny the reunion of a father and son? All of it was childish. And that moment proved to Tom that he had to start growing up.

He'd certainly gotten what he asked for. But was it worth it? His mind whispered in the negative even though his heart wanted to scream yes. He was an adult now. And he'd dealt with a lot on his own since he was a kid, maybe too much. But what was the use in dredging it up now? There was enough guilt to bear at present. Just the thought of it made his stomach twinge.

No one had the nerve to say anything for a while. Allan closed himself off for a few moments while everyone took the information in. Surprisingly, the first person to attempt to break it was the captain.

"Perhaps it is time to explain our assignment," Nemo conceded. Numbly the rest of the League nodded their assent. That, at least, seemed to draw Quatermain back out.

"I have to admit," Allan said. "I was surprised to even see all of you still together after Gray and Moriarty."

"Thought for a while that buryin' you was the last thing we'd all do as the League," Skinner said. "But Nemo over here made us an offer we couldn' right refuse."

"We sailed the seas for four weeks," Nemo proclaimed. "Viewed the treasures of its tropical wildlife, ventured into the dark and cold depths of the Atlantic, discovered new worlds and creatures that man has yet to awaken itself to. Only a month after your death we received a message from the Queen's government. She had asked for our assistance on a matter of national security."

"Then we meet this bloke, Mycroft Holmes. Says 'e comes from British Intelligence, works for Campion Bond. Mind you we've been doin' some snoopin' ourselves, an apparently, Victoria's been keepin' a pearly little eye on us."

"That's Queen Victoria to you," Allan retorted. "If Moriarty and this Sanderson Reed were behind bringing us together, how did her majesty find out about it?"

"Turns out he wasn' rentin' a'place. Jus' hoped everyone went home for a'holiday. Knocked poor ol' Bondsey off his feet and shoved 'im in a closet. But what Moriarty didn' know was Holmes and Bond come in a pair. "

Allan's brows creased, so Mina offered a more simple explanation. "Mr. Holmes came looking for Mr. Bond. He managed to evade Reed and eavesdropped upon our meeting. Once we had all gone he slipped inside the library and pulled Mr. Bond away before Moriarty and Reed could return."

"We assumed," Jekyll supplied. "That his absence frightened Moriarty into revealing the Fantom to you prematurely, before Gray could accept."

"So he could get us away from England," Allan guessed.

"And," Tom added. "From the two people who might have prevented his plans from takin' off the ground. I was the surprise factor. To Gray I just threw a wrench in the whole damn thing."

Allan smirked. "But what's this business they've got the League involved in now?"

"There were four scientists," Nemo said. "That escaped Mongolia and immigrated into London. Mr. Holmes asked that we survey their activities and report on our findings. International tensions are still high from the Fantom's doings months ago. I trust you have heard of the war that has broken out in South Africa?"

"Expectedly so. And yes, unfortunately, I have. Though I doubt there's anything the League can do to stop a war, let alone prevent one. Have you found anything?"

"We have," Mina said. "In secret they have been continuing Moriarty's work, but with a new aim."

"Marketing heroes didn't take well?"

"No," she continued, barely containing a growl. "They're perfecting their findings by combining it."

"Into a hybrid of man," Jekyll said, pulling a small notebook out of his pocket. He handed it to Allan and shoved his hands back into his pockets, avoiding eye contact. "It's all there. They took rather extensive notes on every test subject they could get their hands on."

Allan tossed the notebook aside in disgust when he was finished. "That explains the vicious change in Rousseau."

"How did you know him?" Tom asked, still baffled by that coincidence.

"Bugger wanted to pummel me for knocking over his Merlot. Mind you that back then he wasn't much of a threat, so this transformation had to have happened recently."

"Figures a'mouse of a bunch turns out to be a'monster," Skinner muttered. "An I thought I had mine easy!"

"That's what happens when you go lookin' for trouble, Skinner," Tom said, patting Skinner's coat-covered leg. "You either go all in and ask for it up front or ya risk gettin' your ass kicked with your back turned."

"Well said," Allan offered. "For an American."

"It's the God-given truth when it comes to trouble-makin'."

"And you're the expert on that practice now, eh?"

"Thought I proved that to ya the first time around?"

Allan was about to retort, and Jekyll for that matter too, but Mina saved Tom in the nick of time. "I'm sure that none of us want you to feel obligated on the matter, Allan," she said. "If you'd rather—"

"Spend the rest of my days," he interrupted. "Curled up by a nice fire with books, cigars, and good whiskey to no end? It would be a crime to just sit back and let you have the fun to yourselves. Besides…" He paused, flicking his gaze to Tom in the corner. Tom resisted the urge to fidget, despite the plain sliver of happiness that sliced through his self-deprecation and lightened his eyes for just a moment. "Something tells me that this is right where I'm supposed to be."

* * *

**Little longer than usual. I do hope I didn't rush anything or cram everything in there, cause it sure felt like it. For whatever reason, the latter part of this chapter was hard to write. I hope Allan's account was believable. I'm trying to answer as many questions as I can as believably and simply as I can without giving everything away just yet, so please bear with me. **

**Next chapter we get some new characters! Mycroft Holmes being one of them. Annnnnd, his brother's services are going to come in handy later, so yes, I'm bringing Sherlock Holmes into the mix as well (consider Watson a given too). The major focus, however, will still remain on Tom and Allan. These are just minor character roles because I think it would bring in something more dynamic…and I'm not too keen on the idea of making this a crossover fic (Hence the idea for the one-shot I alluded to last chapter in the Notes with the brilliant plot bunny). I'm not decided on whether to bring in a movie-verse Sherlock Holmes (the 2009 one with Robert Downey Jr.) OR to just stick to the Conan Doyle book-verse. Your opinions are needed!**

**Also, small character note: Campion Bond probably will not make an appearance, but just alluded to now and again as the bigger boss to Mycroft. **

**As always, Let me know what ya think!**

**-Rainsaber**


	10. Pretenses

***This chapter is a little graphic in the beginning. If you'd rather skip the first memory then by all means please do.***

Chapter Ten—Pretenses

An empty chemical flask shattered against the wall. A deafening scream of anger followed after it. Richard Harding was shaking as he stalked through his bedchamber. Thomas had slipped through his fingers AGAIN. He'd let it go the first time, when that damned invisible man interfered, because he'd had his fix of the American then. The emotional high had been enough. He thought it would have been child's play to get within that same reach, but that failed attempt three nights ago proved him wrong.

It was strange, the hold that _this_ boy had over him. It was suffocating, an addiction that clawed at the edges of his consciousness. He sat down and flung his head in his hands, fingers threading through his fine dark hair. It wasn't just the memories of the act itself that plagued him. There were things he needed to know about the boy, what had happened to him after he disappeared from Missouri. He never expected to return to that God-forsaken countryside, but he needed to know that Tom Sawyer was exactly where he'd left him. How he felt when he realized that Tom had left still confused him. He was genuinely frightened, scared that when he bothered to return, things had changed. And the fact that that scrawny little boy had scared him, further enraged him.

_ A long puff of breath escaped his trembling mouth. Lazily, his eyes opened and lolled about to the stars looking down at him and what he'd just done. With no emotion whatsoever, numbed by the blinding pleasure that had seized his body within the past few agonizing seconds, he let himself slip free from the boy's mouth. It had taken him a long minute to realize he just stood there, leaning against a tree, breathing in the night air. He'd sated his desire like he'd done so many times before. He couldn't hear the boy's gagging, crying, or the struggle that he'd put up. He had learned to tune it out because it only complicated matters afterward. _

_ "Shut up!" Joseph shouted._

_ Bleary-eyed, Richard finally had the energy to pull his pants upright and make himself decent. He watched as Joseph gave the boy a good thrashing for trying to run. It didn't faze him until the man forced the boy down onto the ground, one hand pinning both arms against his back and the other gripping a bony hip. From Joseph's position, his own legs spread in protecting himself from the boy's, it was clear what he wanted. Richard didn't need to look up from the near-hysterical boy to see the obvious signs of lust in his cohort. _

_ Joseph asked him a question, but Richard didn't respond. The boy made eye contact with him…and he wasn't breaking it anytime soon. It was strange. No one had ever dared to look up before, let alone right at him. Guilt, for one second, held him in an iron-grip like he'd held the boy moments ago. Those eyes that gleamed with fear, pain, and quiet pleadings for mercy in the night made him pause, made him hesitate in his response to Joseph._

_ "Richard," Joseph warned. "We had a _deal!_"_

_ His eye twitched. He turned his back. "…so we did," was his hoarse reply. And then he walked away to make sure the other two were finishing up loading their boat. That was what he told himself for ten years._

Among all the girls and boys he'd taken, he remembered that one boy who hadn't even been his first, all because in that second of time, between rapist and victim, he reminded him of his own humanity. An eleven-year old Thomas Sawyer had woken a part of the increasingly infamous Richard Harding that he had long since thought was dead. That boy reminded him that he could feel, that there was something more than the superficial power-thrill of controlling and violating someone, of causing the hurt that had been done to him so long ago.

For the majority of his life he had surrounded himself with simple-minded individuals, all for the purpose of control and manipulation. In order to have others serve under him and for him this was a necessity. Even these scientists, given the proper persuasion, could be placed in that category of weaklings. It sickened him recently that he'd practically wasted his life pining for something that he had to deny himself for the purpose of self-preservation. How he survived through life depended on that need for control. And without that control, the vertigo of his world being upturned was explosive.

So why did he want this boy so badly? Maybe it was a chance at feeling normal again, of remembering for a split second that he was, in fact, human, that he had the capability to feel. Why now? …well, he wanted to know what that felt like again so he could at least say to St. Peter that he did feel remorse, and that he just chose to ignore it like God ignored him. Richard exhaled and pulled his face free from his hands. The problem was that if he wanted to get Thomas Sawyer he would have to take matters into his own hands from now on. There was no more room for further mistakes, especially not now that their experiments had proven successful, and that the next stage was awaiting his order to be set.

* * *

His inability to breathe woke him up. Tom's body lurched into action on impulse, grabbing, pulling, and pushing against the fabric of his makeshift bed until he could reach the edge and lean his head over. Wretches and gagging sounds followed, and all he could think, through the fog of panic, was how pathetic they sounded. Once the muscles in his throat stopped contracting, he gasped for air and focused on stopping his entire body from shaking. The only redeeming factor throughout the whole episode was that he managed to keep whatever was in his stomach down.

It was more out of frustration than exhaustion that he threw himself back against the pillows. He still didn't have the strength to stand up on his own, so how was he supposed to make it to this meeting and back without passing out? The message they'd received from Holmes and Bond really left no room for arguments. They wanted the whole League in attendance or the consequences would be severe enough to renounce everything they'd been working for over the past couple of months. Needless to say, someone was right pissed about something, and, from what it sounded like, the League had to answer for it.

And on top of it all he was starting to have the nightmares that used to terrify him as a child. He rubbed a trembling hand against his face to wipe the sweat away but it wound up fisted in his hair. Hadn't he decided to leave the matter alone? Wasn't the matter at hand more important than the problems that shouldn't have even been considered to be problems anymore?

'It's been ten years for God's sake! This is just plain crazy! You ain't that river boy anymore. All of that's behind you…and no one knows about it…'cept maybe the one person you won't let yourself remember…'

He sighed and snaked one hand behind his head as he studied the ceiling of the infirmary. It was true even though Huck's memory did bring him some solace through it all. You could say that the memory hurt as much as it gave him comfort, maybe more considering how hard it was to hand Quatermain that rifle for the first time. How much did he miss Huck? A whole Goddamn lot. He could tell that boy just about anything, and he did for about fifteen years or so…maybe more. It was funny how someone who could mean so much got harder to remember after they died.

And Mina was right. Time did help. Thinking about Huck right now didn't make his stomach twist like it used to. There was still an ache where that bond used to be, but it seemed as if the wound cauterized for the time being. Unbidden but not unwelcome, happier memories of the two surfaced. Tom held back a smile, even though he didn't have to, because he knew it wouldn't last.

Huck just wasn't coming back like Quatermain did, no matter how much he'd beg and plead and pray for it. There was just no way. He still blamed himself for what he had to do that night, and he doubted that he could ever forgive himself for it. But remembering Huck in his prime didn't make him feel as guilty as he feared. It made him cherish the memories that he did have. And it also made him realize one staggering and important thing that he'd forgotten since the start of this whole dirty business. He had one defense against this bastard who tried to ruin his life, one thing that he could never corrupt or touch.

He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, unafraid of letting the smile loose now as he thought of their old adventures and that contagious laugh that used to ring in his ears. Nothing could ever harm the Huck Finn that dwelled in his memories. He was safe there and, in some inexplicable way, Tom felt safe because of it too.

He knew he'd have to face those nightmares one way or another, and that from now on he would have to be extra careful. Things were definitely complicated, probably more than he realized. But he also had a few things in his favor too, things that he'd forgotten about because he'd been too scared to lace up those boots again. He had Huck. He had Quatermain. And, reluctantly, he had the rest of the League backing him up, willing to take care of him even if he wasn't ready to lay his soul bare just yet.

A gnawing feeling picked at his insides though. What would happen if they did find out, if he did gather up enough courage to tell them? Would he be shunned? Would they ridicule him for being childish about it all? Would they be angry that was the reason why he wasn't able to fully concentrate anymore? Would they turn him loose, not want him, drop him off on the nearest continent and want nothing to do with him anymore?

Well…who would? He couldn't control their reactions. Sodomy was not a topic fit for normal dinner conversation—or for any kind of conversation for that matter. But it wasn't as if he was one of them! He hadn't liked it one bit, and even _if_ he'd been too young to understand it he doubted that he ever _would_! The thought alone disgusted him, had bothered him for years. As much as he wanted to consider it as just another bump in the road...he was afraid that he couldn't. If it still bothered him this much after ten years...

But what was the use in crying over it all now? It wouldn't make the man go away. And he certainly couldn't run away from it all, not when his friends were this deep in it already. He would give anything to go back home, even if that meant back to his desk job or being sent back home to Missouri after a dishonorable discharge for going AWOL. But some small part of him wanted to see this through to the end, to feel the satisfaction of seeing that bastard behind bars. And he knew that he had the tools necessary to do the job, he just had to get his act together first.

* * *

Henry Jekyll scowled at Tom from across the carriage. Quatermain had turned his glaring out the window and into the rain, which Henry supposed was for Tom's benefit, since the boy had fought rather hard to keep from fidgeting. He couldn't really blame Tom for that. The ride was proving to be a most tense experience for all three of them, mostly because neither one wanted any attempt at conversation to erupt into another shouting match. It was bad enough that Tom was being carted from his sickbed when he needed another few days of rest for a full recovery, but Allan's temper had only made it worse.

Henry cleared his throat and chanced a glance over to Tom. They stared at each other for a good half-minute before Tom's fidgeting returned full-force.

"What?" Tom blurted.

Jekyll sighed and muttered, unable to keep his thoughts to himself any longer. "You shouldn't be up. You'll be lucky if you don't catch pneumonia by the time we get back."

Tom merely rolled his eyes, ire leaking into his tone as he spoke. "You know, I'm getting' right tired of repeatin' myself."

"Then by all means," Allan groused. "Keep your smart mouth shut. You're fortunate to sitting here instead of chained to that hospital bed where you belong right now."

Tom held back a wince as he readjusted himself in the carriage seat. "Well, Holmes was pretty clear about what he wanted."

The old hunter grumbled to himself with a string of colorful curses and names that nearly made Jekyll fidget in turn. He could only imagine the initial impression Holmes currently had in Allan's mind._–Don't deny it, Henry. You've thought those same things. You're just too much of a coward to voice them!—_He closed his eyes for a moment and schooled his features. Today, of all days, was not the day to give in to Edward.

"I'm sure it wasn't his doing, Allan," Jekyll said. "It was probably Bond's idea, since he has, as of yet, to see us together as a team."

"Whether it was or wasn't is not the _point_," Quatermain retorted. "_You're_ the doctor. I'm surprised you're going along with this nonsense."

Edward laughed. _—Make a fool of the old codger again! Show him who knows best!—_Henry frowned. "I'm certainly not happy about it if that's what you're referring to. But crossing either one of them at this point is out of the question. We either continue as we have been for the past several weeks or we become fugitives."

Allan and Tom both turned furrowed brows and unsaid questions to Jekyll. It might have been humorous if not for the elephant in the carriage, which, unfortunately, was Tom's health. But, if Henry could help their conversation from turning to that, yet again, they might just make it to their new headquarters in one piece.

The doctor crossed his arms. "Arson is a not a trivial offense in London."

"We had nothing to do with that building burnin' down," Tom pointed out.

"But the authorities have no evidence to prove otherwise. We were the last ones seen when they started to arrive. It was a wonder we weren't run down and detained. That's implication enough for Scotland Yard to convict us if we don't prove them wrong."

"What happened to innocent 'til proven guilty?"

Jekyll nearly rolled his eyes. "Would you really want to go to court with an invisible man, a monster, a vampire, an Indian captain, and someone who, until a few days ago, was presumed dead to try and prove our innocence on one account of arson? It would be a regular circus. Whether we like it or not, we need whatever help Holmes and Bond are willing to provide."

Tom shrugged. "Who says we have to come back to this country? Would you miss it?" When he received no response he turned to Quatermain. "Would you miss it?"

Henry had to give Tom credit. The front he was displaying was rather good. If it weren't for his sharp eye as a doctor and his natural mothering nature, as Edward constantly degraded him on, he would have overlooked it. Every now and then Tom had to reposition himself to keep the stitches in his side from pulling. His shoulder, thank God, had healed just fine and didn't cause him any discomfort, but the concussion was another story. It took both Jekyll and Quatermain's combined efforts to help him out of bed and steady him as they climbed into one of the two carriages they hired. And even after that it had taken a while for the color to return to his face. For a while he feared Tom would pass out before they left the docking district.

Mina, Skinner, and Nemo had claimed the other one that was following behind theirs. No one was really happy about the summons they received, but what could they do? There was a mess made and it needed to be cleaned up as carefully and as quickly as possible. The only problem was how they were going to go about doing it…and there were certainly differing opinions on the matter…

_"You can't be serious?" he asked._

_ Mina turned away from him and bent over her desk, retrieving Bromley's journal. "There's no need to pull both Tom and Mr. Skinner from their sick beds. I can deal with Mr, Holmes _and_ Mr, Bond if necessary."_

_ "But they wanted all of us. It's clear that they want no more of this anonymity and mystery that we were hired for. We can't ignore the possible consequences—"_

_ "What would they _do_ to us, Henry? They are not the enemy—"_

_ "But they _could_ be! Don't you understand what's at stake here? If we run, if we ignore their threats we could just as easily be accused of treason as these men that we're hunting."_

_ "Not without the proper evidence." She crossed the room and started to retrieve her coat and scarf. _–She'll leave you, Henry. What makes you think she'll stay by _your_ side? On anyone's _side_? She's a woman. And women _always _have something else up their skirt!—

_ "What are you doing?" he asked, almost afraid of the answer._

_ "Getting the proof we need," she answered. Mina tried to step around Henry, coat in hand, but Henry blocked her way, arms outstretched._

_ "No, you're not thinking of going back to that warehouse, are you? There's nothing left. Scotland Yard's been all over the scene by now."_

_ "There were multiple warehouses in Harding's name. There's a chance we may be able to rectify—"_

_ "By repeating the same approach that we've done before?"_

_ "Of course not!"_

_ "We need their expertise, Mina. They have entrusted us with this case for two months now and the fact that we've failed in obtaining anything concrete that could incriminate them—"_

_ "_What_ do you think I'm _trying _to do?"_

_ "You're not listening!"_

_ "And you're in my way!"_

_ "I don't care," he shouted. "You're not going out there again!" _

_ Mina stood there, mouth agape. She neither stepped forward in aggression nor stepped back in surprise. The fury started building on her face but all Henry could see was red. How could she even think of going by herself? They were on thin ice as it was and her even suggesting to go alone was ridiculous. The last thing he wanted was a repeat of what happened a few days ago. How could she not understand what it had done to him to see her so vulnerable, that those men had been able to physically hurt her? Did she not care?_

_ She stepped up to him with a face as cold as stone. "Who are _you_ to command _me_," she hissed, fangs peeking through her sneering delicate lips. "I would hope by now you would know not to mistake me for a common woman."_

_ She breezed past him with ease and he whipped around as quickly as he could but she was already half-way down the hall, slipping her arms into her coat._

_ "Where are you going—"_

_ "To hire two carriages for tomorrow," she shouted. "One is clearly not large enough for your ego and my nature!"_

He _had_ been wrong to question her the way he did. Mina was certainly capable of taking care of herself, and she had proven time and time again that she was in no league with the rest of the female Victorian population, but rather a step above them. She spoke her mind, could hold her own, and displayed more courage than any woman that he had met in his lifetime; she was a rarity as far as women were concerned. It had felt natural to say what he did because he didn't want to see her hurt again. And look where that had gotten him. He knew it was his responsibility to apologize, but he admitted to himself that he was still a little angry, and until that anger abated he dare not cross her again.

The carriage slowed in the rain and stopped at the mouth of an alley. About ten paces down, from what Henry could make out in the rain, was a short set of stairs and a lit lamp that hung over a broad set of double doors. He could tell from the bristling on the back of his neck that Edward didn't like this either, but what else could they do at this point? They didn't quite have a good track record with dark alleyways, but…since they were already here, what was the use in trudging back? The carriage seats had already started to give him a backache. He could only imagine how Tom felt through it all.

Quatermain put on his hat and pulled up the collar of his coat in one quick motion before he opened the door and descended the stairs. Henry scooted towards Tom and offered an arm. Tom barely put any weight on it, which only favored Henry's theory that today was going to be a long day, so he leaned forward and whispered to the American.

"Just promise me that you'll tell one of us if you start to feel out of sorts."

Tom rolled his eyes. "If you promise to stop hoverin' like I'm gonna' drop down dead any second."

"Lad, you look like death already," Quatermain exclaimed as he turned around from the doorway. "Do us all a favor and just accept the hand when it's offered."

Tom looked like he was about to set loose a sharp response but Henry managed to beat him to it by keeping his voice low, preventing anyone beyond Allan's range of hearing from eavesdropping.

"No one expects you to be at the top of your game right now. A concussion is a serious matter. We won't think any less of you."

Begrudgingly, Tom sighed and leaned onto Henry's shoulder, reaching for Allan's arm on the way out of the carriage. "_You_ won't," he muttered.

Henry decided not to comment. The less time they spent out in the rain the better for Tom's recovery. As soon as he clambered out of the carriage, after nearly losing his footing on the slick steps and enduring a few taunts from Edward, he urged their group toward the door. Mina walked in front with Nemo trailing behind. He dared not catch her eye under the protection of her umbrella, not after their row and the endless silence that had since followed. So he trailed behind Quatermain and Sawyer with Skinner, trying, for her sake, to pick up some of the invisible man's talents.

Mina didn't pause to knock on the door, but turned the handle and found it unlocked. Nemo stepped forward to open the other beside it and the League stepped into a large, dark, and warm foyer. Tiled marble flooring covered a square portion of what they were later to learn was a huge complex of personal rooms, testing facilities, offices, and libraries. Up another short level was the rest of the front hall, carpeted floors and steps, furnished hallways with small wall lamps and the occasional chair, wood paneled walls with recesses for portraits and paintings, but few windows on this side of the building. No one dared move as they surveyed their new surroundings.

The atmosphere was thick with a deathly quiet until a female servant came from one of the long hallways and took their wet coats and things. Henry worried about the loss of Tom's coat and barely bit back a rebuke at the absence of a jacket, despite the waistcoat being buttoned for once. Skinner, of course, had no choice. But his bullet wound was practically guaranteed to completely heal even with the presence of a wet coat.

Ahead of them were another set of double doors. One of them opened and spilled a brighter light into the dark foyer. Against the opening was the figure of a man with calculating eyes that gleamed as he turned back to the light source from within the room.

"Ah, I thought as much," the man said. "Mycroft! Your League has arrived."

* * *

**I'm LATE. There is no excuse. I can only offer apologies and two chapters in compensation for this week, just because I made you wait! I was in the middle of writing it, hating every word, then I changed perspectives and what do ya know? It worked. Just took me a little longer since I didn't even realize I was writing two chapters at the same time, not one.**

**I had a bit of a realization that in order to bring Sherlock Holmes into the picture I'd have some business with Moriarty to settle. Let's say for now that will eventually be explained in a conversation between Sherlock and Tom but not until the sequel…oh, right. There will be a sequel to this…thing. The end for this fic is nowhere near as of yet. If anything, consider this as the halfway point. Title for said sequel is as follows: An Angel's Requiem. **

**I'm actually kind of curious as to who is still reading. Please don't be afraid to leave a review! They _are_ quite nice to wake up to in the morning ;)**

**-Rainsaber**


	11. Profile

**A/N: Sorry for the late update. There may be 2-3 chapters posted this week to make up for the lateness. It was due to a combination of potential work, a planned vacation, and a family emergency. Let me just say that if anyone ever witnesses someone having a seizure there are two important things you need to do:**

** 1. Lay the person flat on their back and then turn them on their side so they don't choke on their own saliva; the spoon trick is just a myth and could potentially hurt the person having the seizure.**

** 2. Call 911 immediately.**

**Should be alright in a few days depending on any news from the planned tests. If anyone is religious, please pray for my friend who is practically my sister.**

***The profile information that will be discussed in this chapter is not overtly graphic but it may be disturbing to some people. There's really no way to skip over it since it's pretty much imbedded into the conversation and scene, but I can warn you in advance that the victim information is where most of it is.***

* * *

Chapter Eleven—Profile

The library that the League had been ushered into had two fireplaces on either end of the spacious room, both lit with roaring fires to ward off the chill of a cold November rain outside. All four walls of the square room were covered in shelves of books and files. The expanse of such was so large that a second floor, accessible only by two spiral staircases in opposing corners, had to be constructed. It wasn't furnished but rough and practical, being made of wrought iron all the way around. Some of the wall lamps attached to the vertical beams of the shelves casted ominous shadows upwards.

In spare places around the perimeter were plush chairs and side tables, couches and coffee tables, and hardback chairs around worktables. Vases with fresh flowers and plants were hidden like Easter eggs, a treasure to be found and afforded despite the steady approach of winter beyond the front doors. It made the space more approachable, the atmosphere welcome, and Tom more at ease even though he wasn't the only stranger to the new room. His eyes, however, were drawn to the long table in the center of the room. There were twelve seats surrounding it and nine portfolios set towards the northern end of the table.

The seat at the head of the table was empty. The man who had announced their entrance led them into the room and to two other occupants at the table. Both stood and crossed the room upon the League's arrival. From what Tom observed they were both your typical English gentlemen, dressed to perfection with the exception of a slight untidiness to the shorter one's hair. He knew Mycroft Holmes the second he saw him across the room, but these other two men were complete strangers to him…and if he didn't know better…one of them looked like he could have been his brother.

"Mr. Holmes," Mina greeted.

"Mrs. Harker," Mycroft greeted in return. "I am glad to see that you received my summons."

It was hard to tell whether Quatermain let loose a low growl on purpose or by pure accident. Either way Mycroft became aware of the heated glare that the old hunter didn't bother hiding. One of the other two men narrowed his eyes and shifted his weight, while the other regarded Allan with indifference. But the attention didn't seem to faze either of them.

"I am also quite sure," Mycroft continued. "That I remember five members to your League, Mrs. Harker. I was not expecting a sixth."

"And yet," Allan said, with an equal cold and calculating stare. "There is a ninth place set at your table, Mr. Holmes."

"I'm afraid my employer had to cancel, unexpectedly."

"Mr. Bond won't be joining us?" Mina interjected.

Tom gave her credit. The tension rose out of nowhere and it boggled his mind as to why. He shot Jekyll a glance but he merely rolled his eyes and returned the glance with a pointed stare. Tom wanted to say something to diffuse the situation, because it was obvious to him now why Allan was being so gruff, but he didn't want to be on the receiving end of that glare again today. And both men had yet to stop their staring match.

"Unfortunately, no," Mycroft answered.

"What a pity," Allan replied.

"Mores the pity if I've managed to waste some of your immortal time, Mr. Quatermain."

_That_ came as a shock. Tom's mouth promptly dropped open. How did Mycroft know about Allan? Had someone told him? He whipped his head in Mina's direction but she seemed just as shocked as he was. In fact, nearly everyone did.

Allan, however, didn't seem fazed at all and shot his response with a slow spreading smirk. "Then it's less the pity and capacity for you since I am, in fact, _not_ immortal…Mr. Holmes."

The gleam in Mycroft's eye faded, and his face fell with it. Overall his demeanor grew colder and Tom knew that, despite Allan's triumph of wit, there were bound to be problems between these two for miles down the road. Funny though, that he thought Mina was the one who loved an entrance.

"Getting ahead of yourself again," the shorter man said, leaning in close. "Aren't we, dear brother?"

"I'll thank you, Sherlock," Mycroft returned, softer, but with more edge. "To leave me the means of my own occupation."

"Well, if I had then you wouldn't have the villain's present location, now, would you?"

"You know where he is?" Jekyll questioned.

"Let's NOT get ahead of ourselves," Mycroft said. "There is plenty that we have to discuss over the course of the next few hours. First, however, I believe introductions are long overdue. This, unfortunately, is my younger brother, the infamous detective as I'm sure you all know, Sherlock Holmes."

He tilted his head in acknowledgement but left the rest of his attention to his elder brother. "Charming introduction, Mycroft," the younger Holmes replied. "I must confess that I'm more partial to this one than the others in your repertoire. The derision is painfully obvious."

So _this_ was the Sherlock Holmes that Tom had read about? It was odd…and at the same time it was bittersweet. He could still remember Huck raving about the stories and shoving them under Tom's nose whenever he had the chance. And he had relented on a few of them, mainly to satisfy Huck's badgering. The methodology of his detective work had been the most interesting aspect out of all of them and it influenced him during his early days in the Secret Service. For a while he had someone to look up to, someone to model himself after and use as a personal goal. It was hard to believe that this man was that same cold and calculating person. He looked a little older than Tom expected him to, and a little more disheveled.

"And this," Mycroft continued, turning away from his brother with a twitch of his left eye. "Is Doctor John Watson, both friend and colleague of my brother, as well as—"

"Author of the stories," Tom interrupted.

Dr. Watson turned his attention to Tom with mild surprise. And almost instantly, he regretted speaking up. All attention snapped to him, and all he could do was offer a lopsided smile to hide his nervousness and discomfort. He really wished they'd just get on with it so they could all sit down soon.

"Picked up a few in the field office back home in the States. Some associates of mine don' see the point in 'em but I think there's a lot to learn. Definitely taught me a few things…uh, Special Agent, Sawyer. American Secret Service." _Damn it._ He tried to save it towards the end from sounding too lame but, yet again, he put his foot right in his mouth. And he could still feel eyes on him, eyes that wanted him to pick him apart. He wanted so badly to move, even just a little but that would make the discomfort show, and he didn't want more attention than what was already directed at him. He spared a glance over at Skinner and, thankfully, the invisible man took the hint.

"Ain't got meself such a long title," Skinner said, leaving the group and claiming a seat for his own. Tom nearly chuckled to himself when he saw Watson start at the half visible man who walked right by him. "But I like to settle wiv gen'leman thief, Rodney Skinner."*

"Although I highly doubt," Mycroft said. "That this is our first meeting, Mr. Skinner, would you mind obliging us with your…" He took a second to consider the proper word and gestured to his lack of a face a second later. "Theatrics?"

"Sure fing, Holmsey. Just don' tell me these chairs are for decoration."

"Please pardon Mr. Skinner's manners," Mina said, with a glare. "It seems that they have become as transparent as he has." She crossed the room and…whether it was purposeful or not, she flung her jacket open and knocked his hat clean off his head with her hand. Skinner ducked his head and managed, at least, to save his hat from being dipped into his face paint. To make matters worse she sat down right next to him at the head of the table, well within warning range.

"Now, Mina," he continued on. "Can' really go on figh'in wiv'a docta anymore, can I?"

"Not if you want to catch your d-death from that bullet wound," Jekyll muttered, keeping his gaze away from the table. He only moved when Allan snaked a hand around Tom's shoulder and guided him towards a seat.

"You said it was healin'," Skinner shot back.

Unfortunately though, Tom was one seat away from Skinner; the poor guy was right between Mina and Allan. He was no better with Jekyll on his other side, after Nemo had gone ahead of him and claimed the seat across from Skinner. Being situated right between two hawks with the cold stare of Sherlock Holmes across from him was not how he envisioned this afternoon.

"They managed to shoot an invisible man?" Dr. Watson whispered to the younger Holmes.

"Bloody crack shot 'at was!" Skinner pointed in Watson's direction with a face-painted finger. "And don' you forget it!"

"Duly noted," Sherlock responded with a slight smile. "Might we commence this meeting of yours then, Mycroft?"

Mycroft's eye twitched again. "After introductions are _finished_, Sherlock, though not for _your_ benefit it seems. Captain Nemo is next to Mrs. Harker, and Dr. Henry Jekyll is across from you Dr. Watson."

The sibling rivalry was so quietly obvious that it brought back memories of Huck again. He felt his eyes start to water and the corner of his mouth spasm under the strain of trying to push it all back down. He shouldn't have even allowed himself to think of him in the first place. It wasn't right, not here, and not in front of these people. He and Huck deserved their privacy.

Eventually, everyone was seated. Tom ran his eyes across the table and let them rest on the thick portfolio in front of him. What he hadn't noticed from across the room was that there was a name on the front cover. And for a split second it felt as if all the air in the room had been sucked clean dry.

"Now, what you have in front of you," Mycroft began. "Are the combined efforts of my brother and I concerning your primary target. What you'll find first is his present location, a list of structural details as well as surveillance notes on their comings and goings, and a narrowed list of other locations he may decide to flee to in the case that another attempt at capture results in failure."

"I assure you," Mina said. "It will not."

"Valliant of you, Mrs. Harker. But I am under strict orders to warn all of you that there is no more room for error. That stunt a few nights ago on the docks has taken a considerable amount of my expertise to calm Scotland Yard from expanding their investigation. I've managed to convince my superior of your dependability and responsibility at present, but I will not be able to ensure your security should he escape again. So I will ask you now if your loyalty and perseverance still remain true to this case and the capture of this criminal?"

"I believe," Nemo said. "That you already know our answer, Mr. Holmes."

Nemo was right. No one looked any different when the older Holmes took a long look at each one of the League. All Tom kept repeating in his head was a mantra that kept him going over the past week or so, 'Bring the bastard down. Do whatever it takes. Then it'll be all over.' He shifted in his seat and felt the slight pull of stitches in his side.

"Then I would advise all of you to look at the information that has been provided to you. Richard Harding is no common criminal."

Tom heard the portfolios around him being opened. He would have left his closed, contented with the external sight of the unholy name on the cover, but that would have given him away. So he opened it a second after everyone else, but he was not able to prevent his eyes from raking over the multitudes of papers and pictures that assaulted him with their explicit nature.

"Besides treason," Mycroft was saying. "He's wanted on multiple counts of battery, arson, rape, sodomy, and murder. We've been able to link him to a string of murders in 1894 and '95, all women. You'll find daguerreotypes to match the names of the victims, as well as some notes from the coroner's report.

"I've also corresponded with the American authorities on this matter, seeing as how he spent most of his childhood and some of his adult years in the country, and they also have multiple warrants out for his arrest. But I was able to negotiate an English arrest, seeing as how his crimes on this side of the Atlantic are far more severe than bar-fights and smuggling."

Further comments were made but Tom heard none of them. In bold lettering on the top of the first collection of papers was the following title: **The Thames Killer (November, 1894- May, 1895) **Below that were lists of names, times, dates, locations, and signatures from both the police and attending medical examiner. They were all listed as homicide. It all seemed so cold and un-provocative on the first page, but beyond that were the individual case files with the pictures he'd gotten a glimpse of when he first opened the portfolio. The first picture was obviously taken after the poor woman had died, but, thankfully, it wasn't too graphic. Tom had seen far worse in the states than the sprawled form of this woman on her deathbed. He gave the information that accompanied it a glance.

First Victim: _Frances Littlefair_ (Age: 34 years)

-Found in Holloway apartment by husband around 1:15 AM

-Evidence of Rape and Strangulation.

-Cause of Death: Asphyxiation.

It was strange to think that Harding had done this, that this woman had been one of his first victims. It just didn't seem right. He didn't seem like the serial killer type. Sure he seemed dangerous enough when Tom had been younger but if Harding was a killer back then, why didn't he kill Tom when he had the chance? Why did he allow him to get away? Was he even a killer back then? Is someone born a killer or do they turn into one later? According to Holmes it had to be the latter, so what changed? What made him want to kill this woman? Strangulation doesn't seem accidental.

The second picture was difficult to make out. There was obviously a female form lying on the docks but her face and the condition of her body were hard to look at. This woman hadn't been killed in her home…or at least found in it.

Second Victim: _Claire Sheraton_ (Age: 31 years)

-Found under docks of Nine Elms Waterworks Co. around 2:30 AM

-Evidence of Possible Sexual Assault and Strangulation (Side note: Heavy decomposition of the body).

-Cause of Death: Asphyxiation.

"You're certain," Mina said. "That the killer between the first two victims you've listed here are the same man?"

"He's certainly not as devious as Moriarty," Sherlock mused. "The nature of his crimes seems to suggest that his worldview is more self-centered than that of the late Professor's. All of these cases are crimes of passion. You're at a disadvantage in viewing this string from the beginning. Backwards, however, you'll be able to see an escalation in his motivation towards these women, as well as the commonality in bodily assault and means of death."

From what it appeared, Sherlock was right. The third victim sang the same tune as the first two. But that didn't make the picture any less disturbing, nor the fact that it looked like Harding had made a mistake.

Third Victim: _Nora Gracie_ (Age: 29 years)

-Found outside St. Katherine docks by steamboat operator at 4:30 AM

-Evidence of Sexual Assault and Attempted Strangulation.

-Cause of Death: Combination of Strangulation and Drowning.

Fourth Victim: _Rachel Walker_ (Age: 23 years)

-Found on river bank outside The Tower at 11:26 PM

-Evidence of Rape and Blunt Trauma to Head.

-Cause of Death: Head Injury.

"The means of death has changed b-between the third and f-fourth, why?" Jekyll asked.

"These two women were murdered within twenty-four hours of one another," Sherlock explained. "One would assume that whatever transpired either before, during or after the death of the third victim, quite obviously before the death of the fourth, motivated the change. It is all but fact stated here that that motivation stems from the sloppy nature of the third murder. There is a sense of comfort and security once criminals define their particular means of killing. My money, however, would be on the actuality that Harding had not yet developed that sense of security as a killer because of the anger exhibited to the unfortunate Ms. Walker. _She_ was killed with brute force, a quicker means of death than strangulation."

The last three blurred together for Tom. The pictures were the worst yet, graphic and unforgiving to any viewer with the faintest hint of curiosity. The only problem was that he had trouble focusing on anything else other than one word that stuck out to him in all three.

Fifth victim: _Jane Doe_ (Age: approximated between 15 and 20 years)

-Found under Lambeth Bridge at 9:47 PM

-Evidence of Rape, Sodomy, and Torture.

-Cause of Death: Blood loss from lacerations to the neck and chest.

Sixth Victim: _Josephine Harrison_ (Age: 17 years)

-Found on Westminster Bridge at 9:20 PM

-Evidence of Sodomy and Torture.

-Cause of Death: Blood Loss from lacerations to lower torso and neck.

Seventh Victim: _Sarah Pearle_ (Age: 13 years)

-Found on river bank in Battersea Park at 8:30 PM

-Evidence of Sodomy and Blunt Trauma to face.

-Cause of Death: Drowning.

It was hard to say which one was worse, which one disturbed him more. Violence was one thing, but to do this to a child? He quickly gripped the arm of his chair to keep Jekyll from noticing how his right hand started shaking, though he doubt the doctor would have noticed it. The room had gone deathly silent and Tom was comforted by it. He looked around and saw uniform looks of disgust and anger.

He took a minute to himself and looked away from the pictures. He hadn't known it had happened to someone else. And he wasn't sure how that was supposed to make him feel…comforted? It had happened to a little girl, not much older than he was when it happened to him. His thoughts abruptly turned to Becky Thatcher and the last time he'd seen her. He couldn't help but let that fear mutate into anger.

"That grimy bugger did this to a li'le girl?" Skinner said, almost too low for Tom to hear.

"The blackguard's done far worse," Watson muttered.

By that point Tom had already seen the second set of papers. **The Child Ripper (June-September 1897). **His eyes were glued to the title.

"What the hell is this?" he heard himself say.

Mycroft sighed. "Very few people outside of Scotland Yard are privy to the information contained within this case. As far as the general public knows, there is no 'Child Ripper,' only the murderer of the last three boys who were of some higher social status. The details of the murders were never released out of respect for the families. We only know of the first three through Sherlock's means of…detective surveillance."

"What do you mean?" Mina questioned.

The younger Holmes was no longer studying either the League or the information in front of him. All he did was stare at the mahogany table as if he wanted to burn or pound a hole right into it, as if there should have been a hole already put into it. When Dr. Watson cleared his throat and spoke, Sherlock Holmes didn't even flinch.

"Sherlock often employs a group of street arabs to complete simple tasks for him when he is unable to do so himself, tasks that are not dangerous by any means, but in comparison to the workhouses, the work he offers them is safe and secure." He stopped momentarily to look at the younger Holmes but nothing had changed. "One of the boys came to us one night and relayed that he had found a friend of his in Hyde park, already dead."

First Victim: _'Robbie'_ (Age: approximated as 12 years)

-Found in Hyde Park at 10:14 PM

-Evidence of Sodomy and Strangulation.

-Cause of Death: Asphyxiation.

Tom kept his jaw firmly shut, but it was a real challenge to keep his breathing from being noticed.

"We were the first on the scene," Watson continued. "And when we could find nothing else we wired Scotland Yard to…make a report. Arrests were made but…the next two were particularly difficult, being that they were two of the regulars."

Second Victim: _'Peter'_ (Age: 10 years)

-Found in Hyde Park

-Evidence of Sodomy and Strangulation.

-Cause of Death: Asphyxiation.

Third Victim: _'Charlie'_ (Age: approximated as 11 years)

-Found in Hyde Park

-Evidence of Sodomy and Strangulation.

-Cause of Death: Asphyxiation.

It was the same. All of it was the same. Why was all of it the same? Why did he change from women to…to boys? Why boys? Why boys that were his age when…

"You tryin' t'tell us this bloke that killed 'ese seven women is'a same bugger who…did _this_ to 'ese boys?"

Sherlock cleared his throat but didn't look at anyone when he spoke. "The previous string of murders and the escalation of violence against his female victims is evidence enough that our villain is a homosexual man coming to terms with his own sexuality by projecting his anger and frustrations onto his victims, possibly because of a previous encounter in his youth or an episode prior to his first known murder in 1894."

"How are you so certain this man is Richard Harding?" Mina asked.

"His fourth victim," Mycroft said. "Identified him for us."

Fourth Victim: _Benjamin Cole_ (Age: 9 years)

-Found alive in Hampstead Heath at 7:20 PM; Later died at Whittington Hospital.

-Evidence of Sodomy and Bodily Trauma.

-Witness Report: Boy recounts being approached by a man who called himself Mr. Harding and asked for help locating his fallen pocket watch. When the victim refused he was attacked by the same man and taken into the woods where he was further assaulted and told to say the man's name multiple times.

-Cause of Death: Sepsis from ruptured appendix.

"What you have is only a partial witness report. The account in its entirety has been sealed since—

Tom couldn't listen. All of this was just too much, too familiar. He could feel his whole body trembling and his skin start to prickle. The heat from both fireplaces vanished and a creeping chill started to replace it. People were talking, louder than normal, probably arguing. Spoken words flew together, tumbled over one another, and crashed. All he could hear was a cacophony of noise that refused to let up. He forced a breath of air in and pulled the last two victim reports out.

He needed to see the end of it. He needed to know what happened to the last two known victims, and how much they suffered. When he laid eyes on them, however, a familiar and sickening twinge in his stomach surfaced. His mouth dropped open and he could barely control his breathing. His eyes slid shut to block it all out but all he could see was the dirt and grass his face had been pressed down on.

_"Let's see if you can still scream, boy…"_

Fifth Victim: _Simon King_ (Age: 12 years)

-Found in Richmond Park off Sawyer's Hill

-Evidence of Sodomy and Bodily Trauma.

-Cause of Death: Bullet to the heart.

_ It was still in his throat, thick and unyielding. He tried to swallow. He tried to breathe without inhaling dust and dirt. He'd lost his voice a long time ago, but he could still hear the man behind him telling him to say something. And when he couldn't he felt worse pain than he thought he could feel, like he was being torn open from the inside out. Briefly, he wondered if this was what dying felt like._

Sixth Victim: _Elijah King_ (Age: 10 years)

-Found in Richmond Park off Sawyer's Hill

-Evidence of Bodily Trauma.

-Cause of Death: Bullet to the head.

Two brothers.

_"Hurry back, would'ya?"_

Dead.

_"I will come back and make your life a living hell, do you understand me? Your aunt, your cousins, your friends _all dead!_"_

Because of him.

_"Here's your home, what ya know best. I don't see why ya have to relocate your whole life!"_

Because he ran away.

_"All grown up are we?"_

He was gasping for air. His face was wet. The twinge in his stomach was threatening to explode but he couldn't calm himself down. There were hands on his shoulders and two faces on either side of his. The room was quiet with the exception of his name being called again and again. Something inside was threatening to break loose.

"I'm gonna be sick," he muttered.

"Where's the nearest washroom?" Jekyll asked.

"I'll escort you. Follow me." That was…Watson.

"Up you get, boy," Allan whispered.

Strong arms held him upright and steadied him as his feet somehow went one in front of the other. The voices kept ringing in his head but they got quieter the farther away from that table he got. He was not aware of who he was, nor the fact that he was being watched with a combination of worry, surprise, and suspicion. All he could think of was making the nausea stop, and there was only one way to do that.

* * *

***-Skinner's introduction of himself in this chapter is a bit similar to his introduction in the movie, just rewritten. **

** Hardest chapter yet. I did try to not make it sound so redundant but I had a feeling it would have gotten extremely confusing without constantly naming characters. Bit off a little more than I thought I could chew with that promised second chapter last week and severely underestimated the challenge that this one would give me, so I apologize.**

** Criminology is such a thick subject to even try and approach, but I did need an authentic criminal to tell this story, so I had to delve into something that is way over my head and make the best of it. The research alone for this chapter nearly made my head spin off because I'm that much of a historical nut. But the detail here is important to understanding our villain, like pieces of the puzzle that will be revealed later, so it was kind of a necessary evil. **

** Deciding what to include and how to still make it easy to read was the tough part. I hope it wasn't too much at one time. This guy has a long history, and that's not even **_**all**_** of it! I am not a hundred percent sure that Sawyer's Hill was a historically accurate place in 1899, but while I was looking at maps and came across that I just couldn't resist.**

**-Rainsaber**

**P.S. Is anyone still reading? **


	12. Fault Line

Chapter Twelve—Fault Line

By now Allan would have been seething in uncontrollable anger if he were still in that infernal library. There was no doubt in his mind that the information they were given, regarding this Richard Harding, had upset Tom. What he didn't understand was why it had caused the boy to decline so quickly. He'd barely registered the gasp at first because he'd been so incensed by what the elder Holmes had said. A rapist and murderer of children that hadn't been publicized? It was completely absurd and obscene, even if it had been done with good intentions…Good intentions his arse.

Those bloody 'good intentions' had him pacing outside the washroom, alone, while Jekyll tended to the boy. He'd almost gotten a glimpse of Tom when the other doctor left and retreated back to the library, but the door had closed as soon as it was opened. _Damn Jekyll and his infernal doctoring._ He hated waiting when it came to situations like this. Give him prey to hunt or a truth to extract and he was perfectly at ease with time, but not when he could do absolutely nothing. There was no solace to find in the quiet of this kind of anticipation.

He let loose a harsh exhalation and turned about again, quickening his pace. The pale complexion of the boy shocked him so much that he couldn't say anything at first. All he could picture was his son, Harry. Jekyll, however, had beaten him to it. After four failed attempts at rousing Tom from his mindless staring Allan had another shock. Tears started to pour from his eyes, but he remained as still as stone, completely lost to the world, practically dead. Allan felt his hand shoot out and grasp the boy's shoulder and for a split second he thought Tom would come right out of it.

But he didn't. It took them another couple of minutes to get a verbal response out of him. By that point the only seated people in the room were himself, Tom, and Jekyll. Blaming Mycroft Holmes and his organization made him feel better because this never would have happened had Tom stayed in the infirmary and recovered properly. Seeing him after the carriage ride nearly made him grab hold of the carriage reins himself and take the boy back to the Nautilus, even if it would have been by force. But it was out of respect for Sawyer that he kept himself in check.

He cast another heated glance at the washroom door and nearly growled when he heard another round of retching. How was he supposed to help the boy if all he could do was offer empty comforts next to someone like Jekyll who knew exactly what Tom needed? The thoughts and feelings racing through him right now were the same that had rushed by in the Nautlius, before Tom became lucid after his concussion.

—Days Prior—

_"GET AWAY."_

_ Jekyll ducked away from Tom's fist for the third time and backed away. Allan cursed and wondered at where the kid was getting the energy to fend him off. He cursed under the strain of trying to regain control of the arm that slipped loose. Normally he had Jekyll's help but the doctor was strangely absent. Allan looked up in time to see Jekyll throw a glass of water against the wall and bury his head in his hands. _

_ "Don't listen to Hyde!" Allan yelled. "Get the damn sedative and end this!"_

_ "GET OFF'A ME, YOU GOD DAMN SON OF A BITCH!"_

_ Jekyll snapped back into control when he heard the curses, but not fast enough to prevent Tom from slamming Allan back into the wall again. The boy was getting desperate to get himself free from the hunter's arms, and he nearly would have if the doctor didn't decide to forego the usual attempt at human decency by jamming the needle into Tom's arm. Somehow the American must have known he'd lost a battle in his delirium, and let loose a loud scream of anger in retaliation._

_ "FUCK YOU. YOU…Sick…Piece of…shit…"_

_

* * *

_

_"I did everything you told me to," he wheezed between gasps. "You sick fuck, you lied! You lied!"_

_ Allan stood in the doorway of the infirmary trying to regain what breath he'd lost in his near panic attack. Jekyll and Nemo's doctor stood at the boy's bedside trying to calm him down after waking from some horrible nightmare. As he exhaled, Allan noticed that he was trembling, which was a shock. Nothing had frightened him this bad in decades. Even though Mina had laid a comforting hand on his back, and still stayed by his side, it didn't help to keep the terrible sounds of Sawyer screaming bloody murder out of his head. Nothing he had done helped. It only made matters worse._

_ "I hate you!" he cried._

_

* * *

_

_"What more do you want from me?"_

_ The whisper had been so low he almost hadn't heard it. Allan jolted from his shallow sleep and laid his eyes on the pallid face of the young American. He sighed and stretched his neck before leaning forward. The closer he looked the more he didn't like what he was seeing. Tom was afraid of him._

_ "Why me?"_

_ "What are you talking about, boy?" he answered. _

_ Tom tried to move away but stopped and moaned in pain. Allan grasped a hold of his shoulder and pulled him back as gently as he could. But that only made Tom more miserable. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"_

_"I'm trying to help you, Tom. Don't you remember this old face?"_

Tom only shook his head, tears present but stubborn enough not to fall.

_"Who do you think I am?"_

_ Tom just turned his head away and closed his eyes. Allan assumed he went back to sleep, judging from the tension that started to leak free from his arms and face. He contemplated waking Jekyll but decided against it and resumed the position he had been in before Tom woke him. He glanced at the clock and noted that it was nearly two thirty in the morning. The constant ticking, as before, start to lull him away from the pain he couldn't ease in the boy, from his own worthlessness. His aching body started to relax and he could feel the approach of a dreamless sleep that was about to claim him. But another whisper brought him back, an answer that he never expected to hear._

_ "My worst nightmare."_

_

* * *

_

Tom retched again. Burning mess made its way up his raw throat. He'd lost count how many times the stomach spasms forced the endless amount up. The taste was something he never got used to when he was a kid. And one of the few disturbing revelations was that he hadn't reacted this badly since his childhood. Nothing had compared to the reality that plagued him for years. It was something he got used to, something he learned to control. But the knowledge that it had happened to someone else, to multiple people, to children just like him made him sicker.

Tears stung his eyes as he furiously wiped them away with a trembling hand. Jekyll was supporting him from behind but that didn't do much for his current state of mind. It took everything he had to not shove the doctor away because he feared and longed for that contact. He needed something to keep him from losing himself to this mess, but at the same time he needed to be alone to sort everything out, to breathe and reel it all back in by himself.

He panted for air at the rim of the toilet for a long time. Jekyll kept one hand on his shoulder as he reached around to wet a cloth by the sink. The running water startled him and he would have fallen had the doctor standing above him not paid attention. He was speaking in a low voice but Tom didn't understand any of it. All of it came out as white noise. His body was shaking. Chills made their way up his spine. Then he lost sensation for a minute. His head lolled back and his eyelids nearly closed. But he never hit the floor.

The next thing he was aware of was a cool dampness moving against his face and neck. He was sitting up. His back was against the wall. He was still in the washroom and Jekyll was hovering over him with wide eyes.

"—can you hear me?—" he was saying.

Tom found his mouth already open and tried to form words. His mouth felt dry and grimy, crusty almost, with some horrible taste that lingered. He winced when he tried to swallow. It felt like the inside of his throat had been cut clean open.

"Wha—"

"You fainted. Try not to talk—"

"Where…" he continued to rasp.

"We're with Mycroft Holmes and his associates…don't you remember?"

He shook his head a little. "No-Yes, where…are _we_?"

"The washroom, Tom. You vomited a great deal after reviewing the case file we received."

There was a pause. He almost couldn't ask. It had started to come back to him but it was all very vague and unclear. He could see the black and white faces. He could see the words on paper. Names. Places. Times. They had all died…all by one person.

"Harding?"

"Yes—"

"Oh God," he moaned. It was true then. It hadn't been his imagination. He had seen the bodies of those boys, what had been done to them, and all of it practically in his own name. He started to hyperventilate again. It wasn't fair.

"Tom, calm down!"

This sick son of a bitch just walked back into his life and caused him the biggest upset he'd felt since the actual attack. Never had he felt so vulnerable and helpless, not even when Huck died. That case file was a slap in the face after everything that had happened. It made him angry. It made him want to scream, but he just didn't have the energy. Sure he felt like crying, but not because of that bastard anymore. The women had certainly unsettled him but the boys…and there had been a little girl too…All of it made him feel small and responsible.

If he had said something back then, when it first happened to him, would any of those women or children have suffered the pain that they did? Would Harding have been caught? Would any retribution have been taken against him if he didn't keep that painful secret? That was what had shut him up, why he never spoke of it. It had been for his Aunt, for Huck, for his friends, for everyone he knew, not for himself.

"Tom, listen to me. I need you to relax. Try to slow your breathing."

What about now? That secret could backfire, couldn't it? Harding had leverage against him. He was a liability to the League because of what happened to him. He wanted Harding behind bars or facing the hangman. He wanted to keep that secret where it had been for so long. But more than anything he just wanted to feel free of it all. And now there was no possibility of it. Even if he could escape the villain he couldn't escape those young and innocent faces who had seen and experienced too much before they had been mercifully killed. It was hard to live with that kind of a personal violation. You never really felt like the same person after it because something precious and integral to who you were had been stolen, split open for the world to see.

"Good. You're doing good."

Neither of them spoke for a long time. Tom still felt weak and exhausted but his senses started to trickle back to him. Jekyll hadn't moved from his side on the floor but was fidgeting. There was something he wanted to do or say but was having a hard time with it. Tom would have felt sorry for the doctor but he was still wrapped up in how his own body was dealing.

Finally, the doctor cleared his throat. "Tom, d-do you want to go back to the Nautilus, to your own room? It's alright if you do."

"Can't just stop this...thing 'cause of me," he whispered.

"I'm sure Nemo and Mina will do just fine in our absence."

"Skin—ner?"

"I think he's had his fill of our villain as well."

"Q-Quatermain?"

"Right outside the door, waiting for you."

Miserably, Tom dropped his head and nodded. What was the use in arguing? He'd turned into a humiliating mess again. The only way to feel better about it was to sleep it off. And he'd rather it be in his own bed than in that hard cot in the infirmary. Jekyll had just done him a favor despite the obvious put down. No matter what it just seemed like he couldn't stop acting like a child. It was frustrating in front of people like this, people that he looked up to, both as a kid and as a growing adult.

"Alright. Stay here while I go and fetch us a cab. I'm sure Allan will want to know how you're doing…?"

Tom nodded once more, too confused and worked up to refuse. Numbness started to creep in. It was all he had left in him that he stayed awake, staring into the woodwork of the far wall.

* * *

Allan stopped pacing once he heard the door to the washroom open. Jekyll emerged looking drawn and haggard. If he hadn't been so worried about Tom he would have said something to the doctor, but, unfortunately, that had become the norm for him. In fact, since Allan had returned he couldn't remember when Jekyll had looked refreshed and unburdened.

Jekyll cleared his throat as he approached Quatermain. "He's still quite shaken up. Could you stay with him while I fetch us a cab?"

Allan nodded and moved to step around the doctor but a hand on his arm made him stop. There was a strange look in Jekyll's eyes, and a hesitation in his body language that instantly set him on alert.

"Might I have a word with you later? Once Tom is settled?"

He had to stay calm for the boy's sake; that was what he kept telling himself. "What about?"

"I may have been wrong about him," he whispered. "This may not be about you at all."

Jekyll excused himself then and took off at a brisk pace with his head lowered. Their conversation after settling Tom into his cot in the infirmary had still been at the forefront of his mind. The fact that the boy idolized him and looked up to him made it that much harder to come back into his life, but now…if that wasn't it anymore, was it even there in the first place? His return had certainly caused Tom some unwarranted stress and buried feelings of remorse to surface. There was no denying that.

The fact that Tom hadn't jumped back to the Tom Sawyer he thought he knew had worried him only because he didn't know what was bothering the boy. If it was simple guilt over his own death then that could easily be rectified. The amount of guilt that Tom was carrying around with him, though, seemed to disprove his own theory. There was more than six months worth of guilt in his eyes, his posture, and his voice. Allan would even go so far to say that it was years of pain that the boy was shouldering. He couldn't help but agree with Jekyll's implication, even if it meant admitting that there might be something he just couldn't fix in the American.

Wasting no more time he crossed the small space to the washroom door and slowly pushed it open. He peered around the side and saw Tom sitting on the floor, staring at the wall with exhaustion hanging on his frame like drenched clothing. Wordlessly he shut the door behind him and moved as slow as he could to the floor next to him. The last thing he wanted to do was spook the young agent. One look at his expression, however, told Allan that even a gunshot may not have startled him.

"You alright, boy?"

"I'm a fool," he muttered.

Well, _that_ was unexpected. He spoke. "What gave you that idea?"

"It shoulda been me. It's my fault those boys are dead."

The scary part about that statement was the coldness and indifference he heard in Sawyer's voice. The boy was tired, he could see that, but what he was hearing was more than just exhaustion. The last thing the boy needed was to shut the world out if he was going to get past this to a full recovery. Allan didn't know much about concussions but he'd be damned if he let the Tom he knew be reduced to this shell he saw in front of him.

"Are you out of your ruddy mind?"

Tom didn't flinch but remained silent, so Allan pushed on.

"What makes you think you're responsible for those murders? You were halfway across the bloody globe for God's sake. And no one _knew_ about them thanks to those idiot policemen. _They're_ the fools, not you."

"You don't know…" Tom murmured. "No one did. I didn't say a word."

"About what?"

"…You don't want to know. No one does."

Allan really tried to keep the ire out of his voice, but the traces that reached his own ears after he started speaking made any further efforts useless. "So, you've got me figured out then? You think you know what I'll say. You think you know what I'll feel and what I'll do so you can tell yourself you don't even have to try. Why don't you enlighten me, Tom? What will happen if you tell me the truth?"

Tom swallowed and nervously flicked his eyes towards Allan before clamping his jaw shut.

"I think we both know all of this goes far beyond my resurrection, doesn't it?"

Still, Tom refused to speak.

"I know there's something you aren't telling me or the League. But I'm not going to force it out of you. Your secrets are your own to keep, no matter how trivial or horrible they may be. Now, you may be too young to understand this...but keeping those secrets entails you losing a part of yourself."

Finally, Tom turned his head and set his weary eyes on Allan.

"In that silence you are isolating yourself from the world you have every right to live in, from your friends and family who have every right to care for you. But, most importantly, you are denying yourself your own ability to feel, to be human. By keeping that secret you are allowing yourself to become one of _them, s_omeone like Richard Harding who kills with no regard for life because of whatever pains he feels were unjustly forced onto him."

Tom took a shuddering breath but quickly closed his mouth again. A lone tear fell from his left eye but Allan couldn't stop himself, not when it meant he might be getting through to the boy.

"Villains like him kill because they know of no other way to make that pain disappear. What they don't realize is that it never will…not unless they're willing to trust, to forgive, and make things right. As sick and twisted as it is, that bastard is also a human being. But what you _need_ to understand, son, is that he is a failure of a human being because he sacrificed something so special just so he could get even, because he was too much of a coward to face his own problems."

It was harsh, but it was also the cold truth that couldn't be ignored. Tom swiped at his eyes but Allan made a grab for his hands to prove his point, shifting his weight so he was no longer speaking sideways but forwards.

"It kills me to think that I may never see that brash and spirited young agent, that made _such_ an entrance to this League, ever again because of that pain you think no one needs to see. You may not realize it now but your need for privacy will make you suffer more because of it. I'm only saying this because I don't want you to make the same mistakes that these villains or I did. Life is less forgiving when you face it alone because loneliness _is_ the mistake."

Tom's face was wet, once again. It hurt Allan more that he'd been the cause of it this time, but he kept telling himself that it was a necessary evil. Inwardly it made him smile because it meant that the boy was listening.

"Now, you still have that choice. You always will. What I want you to know is that I will listen, whenever and wherever you need me to, no matter what it is. I will do nothing but listen. I won't judge you. I won't walk away from you."

"Not again," Tom asked, barely audible.

Allan let himself smile. "No. I'm not going anywhere."

Tom lowered his head and closed his eyes. His lips spread wide as if he were about to cry, but nothing came out. Both men sat in the washroom for another five minutes. Silence was their companion and comforter, until Jekyll knocked and opened the door to take them all home.

* * *

He knew that look. Extreme Guilt. The way the face was drawn long and the body hunched forward despite being supported. The heavy footsteps that barely supported his own weight, merely moved in show of stubborn defiance of the support being offered. Although there was an absence of tears, the red glossy eyes told the rest of the story. But then there was the reaction to the information they'd reviewed. The name of the landmark had, admittedly, been in the forefront of his mind when the American introduced himself. The shock was painfully visible. The illness that followed very nearly confirmed it. The way the young man glanced at him with fear in his eyes from the foyer made it concrete.

"Holmes?"

Sherlock turned around and acknowledged Watson who stood by his side at the entrance to the library. He heard the door click shut behind the four who left. The presence of the remaining two somewhere behind him kept his voice low and any further explanation silent. "There's another victim."

Watson blinked and followed Sherlock's eyesight that was transfixed to the front double doors. "What...You're not suggesting…"

"Sherlock doesn't suggest anything lightly, doctor," Mycroft whispered. "I would assume you'd know that by now. In fact he doesn't suggest at all. He all but states the facts."

"But…if he's correct—"

"Either way we still have a meeting to conclude and plans to make. We can discuss this later."

Mycroft left them. Watson followed, thumping along with his cane. Sherlock stood a moment longer, his mind still wrapped around the mystery that the American most likely held. What would it mean for all of them if he was right about the young man? Briefly, he wondered what the benefits would be if he were wrong...

* * *

**Thank you my wonderful reviewers! Your kind words really helped pick me up after this week and encouraged me to get this second chapter done. My friend is doing ok and is receiving antibiotics. Let's just hope the EEG and MRI go well too. Please keep her in your prayers :) because they are definitely working!**

**Secret's coming out soon…ish. I'd give it a couple more chapters before the whole thing is out in the open and shit hits the fan, but we are certainly getting closer. It is a little shorter than usual, but I didn't want to put too much in here or detract from the washroom scene with Allan and Tom. Plans for the sequel are in full effect as well, obviously not fleshed out from beginning to end, but the general idea is there and it is building every day. Until next time, please leave a review if you are inclined to do so-because they are the icing to my cake...and I loves me some icin'.**

**-Rainsaber**


	13. Undulating Echoes

**Chapter Thirteen****—Undulating Echoes**

The rest of the meeting was a bit of a blur in light of Tom's departure, but the important thing was that they had the information they needed. They had a plan. They knew what needed to be done. And they knew when to strike.

It should have comforted Mina in light of their recent struggles with this villain. She was anxious to have it all finished, but it had dragged on for weeks. And for those long painful weeks she felt useless, like a pawn in a larger plan that she had yet to discover. She didn't like feeling used, not after what made her the way she was. In a way, it made her no different than those women who she saw brutalized by the disturbed excuse for a man who was the source of her current unease in more directions than one.

Mina's room was darker than usual, due to a couple of blown light bulbs, but the darkness hadn't frightened her for years. She finally decided to remove her coat, but it never made its way to its home on the coat hook. Her arms dropped limp and the sound of heavy fabric hitting the floor barely registered to her ears. The small daguerreotype of herself and her husband captured her eyes and pulled her feet forward as Dracula's visage once had, all those years ago.

The glass that protected the photograph was smooth. She almost tricked herself into believing there was a difference in texture around Jonathan's face, as if his memory in her mind could somehow bring him back to life on the flat transparent surface. Her eyes closed of their own accord and through the darkness she could see his face slowly form. He took a breath. His lips parted. He spoke her name.

But her eyes opened again to her lonely room because she heard nothing. She could feel the blood start to rush to her eyes and her throat begin to close as the repressed emotions began to overwhelm her. The instinctual thing to do had been to drop the frame and flee the room. And she did, even when she heard the glass break behind her. She'd lost so much because of Dracula. At the time she couldn't fathom anyone as evil as that creature. But that hunger she perceived in Richard Harding, as she trudged her way through his criminal history, nearly gave her chills. What man could commit such atrocities and still retain his own humanity? How had he fallen so far? And what did that make her in comparison to him? How different were they?

She noticed some time ago that she'd stopped moving, but that didn't calm her steady flow of thoughts, not even when Henry stood in front of her with widened eyes. She blinked. They were in front of his room. And neither of them said anything for a long time. She was aware of how her eyes must have looked, but refused to speak until she was confident she would sound normal. What surprised her, however, was not the fact that he didn't immediately barrage her with concern or fear out of ignorance. He let the silence breathe and never backed away or fidgeted in place.

It was unusual, but oddly comforting. She suspected it was mostly due to Hyde working under the surface considering that, at times, Henry was normally a walking contradiction. His eyes were colder, asking questions that she wasn't sure she could answer just yet. It was safer to keep Jonathan to herself because it was the only way she could protect him anymore. And still having something to protect from her previous life, before it turned into a living nightmare, was one of the only things that kept her sane anymore.

"What's wrong?" he finally voiced.

"I…came to enquire about Tom's health," she said.

"Oh." She watched as he visibly relaxed against the doorframe and nodded to himself. "Of course. He's resting. He's been resting in his own room since we returned. I thought it m-might be best if he recuperates in a more…familiar environment."

"Were you able to determine the cause? Was it due to his head injury?"

"I haven't come to any solid c-conclusion as of yet, but…that could be the reason."

"Will he be alright?"

"In time, I'm sure he will. Though I can't s-say that trip did his mental state any good."

"Mr. Holmes sent us with his apologies, but I assured him that should he ever make such a bold request in the future with such results he would sooner make enemies of us than keep our loyalty."

Henry smiled. "You've put it much lighter than I probably would have."

Mina returned it as best as she could.

"M-Mina? I, ah…I'm s-sorry about m-my over-reaction—I shouldn't have said what I d-did and…it was wrong of m-me. "

"Henry—"

"N-no, let me finish. Someone I…admire…greatly, has once again been the v-v-victim of my baser nature. And yet, all that I c-can do is offer an empty ap-pology when there's just no telling when it will happen again…because it will…and there's nothing that I can do to stop it. He plays on my insecurities so well that often times I don't even know he's doing it until too late. He…he knows me better than I know myself. He's learned to adapt to my accomplishments with him, to act with subtlety."

"He's evolved," Mina whispered.

Jekyll took a step forward. "He uses me, _daily_. And it is such a struggle to maintain some form of decorum…around you, for example-and please, please forgive me for being so blunt but-I know of no other way anymore-all because of what he's gained just to spite me—I can't—We can't…what I said to you was not…"

Henry quickly dissolved into himself, pressing a hand against his temple, clenching his eyes and teeth shut in attempts to drown out whatever Hyde was saying. Mina grabbed both of his shoulders and spoke when she was sure that all of his attention had been refocused onto her. "Henry, what are you saying?"

"The thought of…_hurting_ you," he forced out. "Makes _us_, numb. Me from fear. Edward out of anger. It's…_suffocating_, Mina. I couldn't breathe until I knew you weren't on the verge of death when you came back from that warehouse. I didn't…I _knew_ that I couldn't live with myself if it had happened again. That was why I belittled you, to keep you safe. Unfortunately though…we've both made a mess of things, Edward and myself."

"I will admit," she replied. "That had you told me your reasoning I may not have reacted as I did. I suspected it was out of concern, but not at first."

"Mina, I'm—"

"Do not apologize to me unless you are willing to accept mine as well."

Jekyll blinked. "I don't understand, what do you have to ap-pologize for?"

"For putting this off for so long. It was rather childish of me."

"But not entirely your fault in light of everything that's happened."

"Be that as it may, it still remains that we were both at fault and have a decision to make. We either exchange apologies or forget our troubles. Which do you believe to be the preferable option?"

She would be lying to herself if she didn't acknowledge that the guilt was threatening to rip through her chest as she waited. It caused a smothering ache of pain throughout her entire body to know that she wronged Henry and may not have been able to rectify what friendship they once had. And it was all because of her own unspoken fears of loss. She was tired of losing those she cared about because of her own self-preservational needs.

"I believe," he started. "That we both know, without any shred of doubt, and…d-due to our respective life experiences, how impervious time is to eradicating mistakes."

Solemnly, Mina nodded, and out of habit flicked her tongue against one of her sharp teeth.

"But I would be remiss to not begin to be more honest with you…and say that I would s-sincere-ly miss the…intimate companionship that we had…before. There are not many friends that I haven't…hurt and driven away because of who I am, and…literally no one who has chosen to stay by my side despite him. I know of no other way to rectif-fy this than to acknowledge my shortcomings and deal with them as any proper g-gentleman should. So…I am offering you my most humble apology, in hopes that we can continue as we were…before any of this."

Mina smiled and nodded her head. "If I may apologize for my own and wish for the same."

Henry returned the smile, if somewhat nervously. "Of course."

To say that she was relieved would be a severe understatement. Knowing that they both wanted the same thing, however, was both as gratifying and reassuring as she hoped it would be. It was rare that the things you imagined happened the way you hoped they would, which made them more precious than the dream when they actually did.

"You are finished for the night, then?" she asked.

"With my recurrent patient, yes," he chuckled. "Your recovery went well, I trust?"

Mina opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. He was making an open effort to be more honest with her. He had practically made a vow to. Didn't that mean she should hold herself to the same regard?

"Mina?"

She closed her mouth and absently chewed on her lip, unable to keep eye contact anymore. The last thing she wanted was to worry him. He'd done so much for all of them within the past couple of weeks. He didn't deserve to have something else on his plate. But it wasn't as if she knew how to handle this change in herself either.

"There is…" she began. "A residual pain…from the wound. Still."

His mouth dropped open. Neither one said anything for a few moments. "That happened days ago…How much pain?"

She took a deep breath and forced herself to keep speaking. "Enough."

"I don't understand. Your…anatomy is quite different from ours. The wounds, have they healed?"

"Completely."

He shook his head in thought. "Do you normally feel pain?"

"No. If I were to be honest, I haven't felt pain since…"

"Since you became what you are?"

Words finally failed her. She remembered how it frightened her the very first time she came back to herself after feeding, after believing the curse had been broken with Dracula's death. She remembered kneeling over her husband's pale and stricken body, falling forward in shock and anguish as the cries of her infant son went unheeded. She hadn't been as utterly alone as she felt, being that Van Helsing spared her life and helped to fund her self-imposed exile as well as offer to raise her son who had somehow been miraculously spared her fate.

She'd grown used to what she was and how to survive. But what happened recently was new and different. All of a sudden she was reminded of what used to make her human, and it wasn't going away. It was horribly confusing. At moments she hated the pain and wanted the bliss of ignorance that had been forced upon her years ago to return. And other times she was terrified of it leaving her, it being the possibility that her humanity may yet return and that the curse would, one day, actually fade, that she would be allowed to die.

Mina didn't know what she wanted for herself. And Henry reminded her that she didn't have to decide that anytime soon when he touched her arms.

"You need to tell me _everything_," he said. "Both about what happened to you at the warehouse and…about who you are, how it happened all those years ago." He paused, took a deep breath and continued. "Can you trust me? Us?"

Now it was Mina's turn to take a moment to herself and breathe. The answer, she knew, would never change as far as he was concerned. And that stability that she discovered in him helped the emotional turmoil subside…for the present. So, she nodded her head and followed him down the hallway to a quiet room.

* * *

Skinner peaked in as Sawyer slept, surprised and then relieved that Quatermain was gone. The last thing he wanted to do was cause another row that would put him right in the middle of where he didn't want to be. He hadn't meant to scare the kid after all…

_He left the hat and coat outside the boy's room while the doctor and Quatermain led him inside. Wouldn't do any good to have him slip on a wet floor and bang his head again. Once they maneuvered him over to the bed, Skinner followed them in and leaned against the wall out of Jekyll's way…until he decided to do something nice, by helping the boy with his shoes when he looked like he was having trouble. The reaction startled everyone when Tom shouted and flinched away. _

_ "NO—Get Him Away!"_

_ Tom would have moved further if it hadn't been for Quatermain holding him down. "Easy son," Quatermain soothed, but not without a glare over his shoulder directed at Rodney. "Calm down. It's all right. It's just Skinner, remember?" _

_ "Yeah," Skinner chuckled. "Easy kid, I'm right here. See?"_

_ As if on instinct, Sawyer kicked out at Skinner and sent him to the floor with a loud thud as soon as his hand touched the boy's knee. Somehow, he'd managed not to let a groan of pain loose. Damn kid was spot on by kicking him in the shoulder. Kneeling down was not a smart idea._

_ "STOP—Go away!" By then Tom had scuttled back to headboard of his bed, gasping as if he'd just run a mile. _

_ "Damn it, Skinner!" Quatermain roared. "Jekyll, get him out of here! Now!"_

Sawyer looked about ten years younger when he was asleep, hair tossed across most of his face, mouth slacked open, and hands fisted in the covers. It tugged a smile at Rodney's lips. And he let it happen, mostly because it wasn't as if anyone could see him do it. As quiet as he came, he slipped away to let the boy rest. He really hadn't meant to scare him, and that made Skinner feel all the worse.

But that begged the question why Rodney did scare the boy. Sawyer was more than used to him by now. In fact, Tom could pick Skinner out without letting the invisible man knowing he knew he was there. And there was no chance that Rodney had grown sloppy. He knew how to let people know he was there and he knew what to do to stay hidden. Who did Tom think he was? Come to think of it, what had shaken him up at the meeting? Was it the women? The boys? ...Wait.

Skinner stopped cold as another memory flashed through his mind.

_ "Look, kid, I ain't no stranger to the kin'a blokes that traipse the underworld o'these streets. Ain't exactly a stranger to their likes eiver," he added, quietly._ _"But I know what kin'a trouble kin come your way if you ain't careful." _

_ Tom pulled his coat closer about him and leaned back against the wall, hugging his knees to his chest. "'Bout ten years too late for that, Skinner."_

Those boys…those boys would've been his age if…

"Oh, bugger," he cursed, half-heartedly. He turned around and contemplated the door to the boy's room that he hadn't closed shut.

Everyone had skeletons in their closet, ghosts haunting their steps. And from what it seemed, Sawyer was no different. But even if he was right, even if it was that much more important that they catch this Harding character, it wasn't his business to know. And it wasn't as if he had any place to try and offer the boy some comfort if it was true…So he turned around and headed to his room with a heavier heart and a name on his mind that refused to be ignored any longer. Theresa Eddows.

* * *

The fire was dying. But Quatermain didn't have to tell Nemo that. He was perfectly content to let it go, to let the impending darkness come. He glanced over at the captain who he had joined ages ago. Rather stoically, he sat straight in his chair with closed eyes, praying…thinking…perhaps attempting to make sense of the very thing that drove Allan to the security of the library in the first place. The brandy had been an afterthought.

"How is Agent Sawyer?" Nemo asked, suddenly.

Allan woke from his trance with an inhalation. His face quickly settled into a frown as he was pulled right back into the one thing he'd tried to escape from. Leave it to someone like Nemo to disturb what peace he thought he found despite everything. "Last I checked the boy was asleep. It took him a while to calm down, in his own room at that."

Nemo's brows creased, but his eyes remained closed. His voice, normally even toned that demanded attention and respect, sounded weak and far away. "I trust Dr. Jekyll has made his concerns known to you?"

Allan refused to look at the Indian captain. All he had the strength to focus on was the fire, licking and clawing its way from the ashes to devour the last scrap of wood on the hearth. "You think it's possible?" he whispered.

Nemo sighed and the lids of his eyes peeled back, revealing the glossy surface beneath. "I would wish for a less likely explanation."

"And I would wish for that bastard's head on a stake," Allan growled.

"I will not deny that his crimes merit that judgment."

The villain more than deserved it. In fact, he deserved to burn in the fiery pits of hell for a hundred eternities for what he had done to those women and children. It made him sick to remember it all. "The odds and the evidence coincide too well."

"And yet I hear denial in your voice," Nemo prodded.

"Never before have I wanted to be so wrong."

"But you have said yourself that—"

"I _know_ what I said, Nemo. But I refuse to believe it unless I hear it come from the boy himself."

Nemo sighed. "Such a tragedy…may be difficult to admit after so much time has passed."

"We know _nothing_ of what may have happened to that boy. And for now I'm content to let it alone. Tom needs to come to this on his own terms. He needs to learn to trust us, and the only way to do that is to let him do the reaching…if any of this _is_ true."

Thankfully, Nemo remained silent after that. God knew how hard his heart prayed for it to be false, for the whole thing to be a misunderstanding or figment of their own twisted imaginations. He couldn't believe it. There were pieces missing, one more crucial to the entire picture than the others. He had to have some trust in the boy because whatever it was that was keeping him silent wouldn't go away without help. Allan had to have some faith that it was something else because he wasn't sure if he could handle the thought that they had all, somehow, failed Tom. He'd already done that once, and the first time was hard enough.

* * *

Silence was an obvious companion. You knew it was with you when it came, which made its role hypocritical when all you really wanted was to be totally and completely alone. The bottom line was that you never were, no matter how much privacy you could fight for and win. There would always be ghosts haunting you, elements accompanying you, and your own conscience to berate you on a daily basis.

'It's true,' Tom thought. 'No matter how hard ya try to keep them out they'll keep knockin' at that damn door til they break it down.'

He shifted on his side in the bed, pulling the sheets and blankets to his chest as he curled himself into a lazy ball. There was warmth under the layers that had been piled on top of him. Jekyll worried that Tom would develop a fever, so he let the doctor fuss until he was satisfied and left. Quatermain left sometime when Tom was finally able to fall asleep. Eventually, he knew he had to apologize to Skinner for how he reacted. At the time he couldn't help it because of how wound up he'd let himself get at the meeting, but here? In his own room? It was starting to get exhausting, being afraid of every little thing.

Four hours worth of a nap didn't do him a lick of good. More than anything he felt drained, not numb like he longed to be, where reality blurred and would eventually be erased. How much did he want that right now?

Every time he thought that he'd caged the bastard who haunted him he would turn around and pull a cruel trick on Tom. As much as he hated to admit it, Harding was just about everywhere over the past ten years, even when Tom was starting to come into his own and feel like himself again, when he'd finally gained a little independence of his own back. There was always that voice in the recesses of his mind holding a part of him down, no matter how hard he tried to break free.

Maybe Quatermain was right. Trying to forget hadn't helped him. The alcohol was a prime example of that because there was always something that would remind him of that turning point in his life, either intoxicated or stone cold sober. There was always a trigger. And it was frustrating how it never seemed to get any easier. Maybe…he did need to tell someone to make it go away.

But could it go away? How could telling someone what happened make it any easier to deal with? It wouldn't change what happened to him. It wouldn't change Harding's mind from coming after him again. So what was the point? Wasn't it childish to want the comfort that he was too afraid to ask for back then? Wasn't that what he really wanted? Didn't that make him childish now? Wouldn't it make him feel worse knowing that someone else knew that he'd been…violated like that?

How had those boys felt? The only difference between him and them was that he had gotten away. Tom had to live with that had been done to him. And the more he thought about it the more he envied those boys because they would never have to know what it was like to live with it.

The problem now was that nothing could take back what had happened back then. The only thing he could do was deal with what was in front of him, to make sure it didn't happen again. …again…what if it did? What if there was nothing he could do to stop it? If he couldn't have spared those boys their fates by speaking up when he should have when he was younger…what was to stop Harding from getting him now, when no one knew still? He was just too damn scared to say it because saying it made it real, and not a nightmare anymore.

He reached behind his pillows and searched until his fingers bumped into something solid. They wrapped around a leather bound book and pulled it free. Lazily, he let his thumb trace patterns of nothing over the worn cover. His eyes slid shut as he memorized where every crack started and stopped, where they converged, dived deep, and faded to the normalcy of the surface.

When the little details of life around you encompass the whole of your focus, even if someone is sitting right next to you screaming in your ear, or if it's your own consciousness calling from somewhere above the dark surface, and you ignore that call even if you understand what it's saying, you know that something is wrong with you. But he just couldn't say it, not yet…if ever. Maybe not ever.

* * *

Richard Harding didn't move for a long time. He stared at the contents on the table while Bromley and Howell exchanged worried looks behind his back. Edwards leaned on the wall with a sour look on his face.

"I want this placed before sunrise," Harding said. "If Holmes thinks he can outsmart me with his bloody disguises, he has another thing coming. "

"Moriarty 'ad 'iz uzez," Rousseau said, entering from the side.

"And now's the time to test those uses. Gentlemen, your service to me is coming to a close soon. If you know what's good for you, you'll _trust me _to keep my end of the bargain...Blackmail will not work on _me_, Edwards."

Edwards froze, ignored the stares, and plastered a scowl on his face. Harding walked to him, careful not to frighten his prey.

"Did you really think you could play both sides of the coin and fool me? You've tested me, Nathaniel, even after I warned you to stop. Now I told you," Harding said, pausing for a split second to stab Edwards in the gut. His sharp gasp bounced off the walls. "How _much_ I _loathe_ selfish people like _you_. But apparentally you have a hearing impairment! You betrayed me-You wanted to stab me in the back all because of your _fucking_ EGO!"

Edwards cried out one last time as Harding twisted the knife deeper and then wrenched it out. The man fell to the floor in a wheezing mess until the sounds faded and he slumped backward, dead. The knife was tossed to the floor, earning jumps of surprise from the other occupants of the room.

"I have the decency to stab you from the front," he declared, before turning to the shocked scientists. "Remember that!"

* * *

**I realize these updates have been a little sporadic and inconsistent lately so I apologize. I'm really trying to get back into a consistent schedule but things are making it incredibly hard for me to do so. Anyone have an aluminum bat handy so I can beat the evil month of August out of existence?**

**-Rainsaber**

**Ps. Not much happens, action-wise. This did, however, give me an idea of what to look out for in the sequel to make sure this doesn't happen again. I'm not proud of how this chapter turned out at all and can only hope to make it up to you with the next one. It's a tough time trying to find a balance with the action and emotional aspects that need to be addressed. The best I can say is that what is addressed in this chapter needed to be said but there could have been a better way of doing it…in my perfectionist opinion :/**

**Pss. ANY of these characters could stand alone in their own fic. It's also hard at times to stick to just the main characters because there's so much else going on. **

**Psss. Please let me know you don't hate me by now...but then again I wouldn't blame you. XP**


	14. Catalyst

***The chapter I think we've all been waiting for…and one that I've been a little impatient to write. From here on out the story gets darker as the chapters go. Brief mention of suicide in the second section.***

**Chapter Fourteen****—Catalyst**

The next couple of days passed slowly for the League. No one seemed to take less notice of it than Sawyer, and it was starting to worry Allan when, on the third day of waiting to make their move, the American had still refused to speak to anyone. He took the time to sit with the boy everyday but Tom gave up no indication that he'd known the hunter was there. He ate when the time came, with everyone else in the dining room, but every time someone would steer the conversation his way or prompt him to speak, his mouth remained closed.

But, true to his word, Allan refused to push him. When the boy was ready, he would come to him. Quatermain told himself that by the hour, and at the end of every hour he grew more apprehensive of that promise. It was more than disturbing to witness the change in Tom's demeanor. He was more withdrawn than Allan had ever seen him, still as stubborn as ever, but quieter, passive, and cold.

Nemo thought a change in scenery would help draw him out of his shell, which was why they were miles off the English coast in the middle of the Atlantic. Allan had been doubtful that it helped until he went searching for Tom and couldn't find him. He very nearly tore the ship apart before he thought to check the conning tower. The door creaked open loudly and the bright light blinded him momentarily. But when he was able to open his eyes he almost lost his footing when relief, at the sight of the boy by the railing, crashed into him.

Why did he feel the strong urge to throttle the poor American? Allan sighed, heavily, and closed the door with a bang behind him. It was a windy afternoon with darkening storm clouds in the distance.

'Miracle the sun's still shining,' he thought.

And Tom was leaning against the railing as if it were the last bit of sunshine he was allowing himself to soak up. Allan noted the closed eyes as he took a step closer. All of Tom's body language said that he didn't know Allan was there…which was bloody ridiculous for a spy, but not altogether unexpected for whatever dark secrets that he was holding so tightly to his chest. It made his heart heavy to think about how young the boy was, too young in his opinion to be carrying something so large on his own. Briefly, he wondered if it had always been there, and if he'd just been too distracted with the League and his own problems to notice it the first time around.

He sighed and leaned against the railing behind the boy. "Storm's coming," he had to call over the wind.

To his credit, Tom didn't flinch. He turned around and gave Allan a quick glance before turning away. Then he nodded, which was a big step considering his silence over the past few days. Taking a step closer to the boy may have been taking it a step too far, but by this point Allan was fed up with dancing around the issue that he needed to drill into that thick skull of Sawyer's.

"There's something I need to tell you," Allan began. "And I need to know that you're willing to listen, because repeating myself will only serve to waste both our times."

A pause, and then another nod, more sure than the first.

"I'm assuming that you've read that letter by now."

Sawyer's gaze flitted to him once before he turned and pulled the journal out of his pocket. Before he could offer it though, Allan put his hand out and stilled Tom's.

"Keep it. That part of my life is over. And I would intend for all of it to stay that way if I didn't know that you were holding onto one essential piece of it for the wrong reasons." There really was no easy way to say it, and, truth be told, it needed to be said without any sugarcoating, even when Tom looked like he was ready to bolt past him any minute. "Moriarty was the one who brought about my death, not you."

For a split-second Allan thought that Tom would speak, but as the minutes passed he grew more doubtful. A myriad of emotions shone through on the American's face. The last one that Allan saw, however, made him angry. The plainly visible shame was not something he wanted to see, and he would have started in on the boy again if he hadn't heard Tom's whispered reply. "…was a stupid mistake."

"What was?"

"It was my fault he got to you. You died because of me."

"Tom—"

"No! It was! I didn' make sure that man was dead—"

"Reed is dead _now_, Sawyer—"

"And you still should be," he exclaimed in a shaky voice.

All efforts of comfort be damned. Allan grabbed both bony shoulders roughly and took advantage of that surprise by plowing on before Sawyer could utter another word.

"Stop this foolishness! Right. Now. Don't you bloody _dare_ blame yourself for a choice that was mine to make, boy!"

Sawyer visibly flinched at the older man's tone, and refused to make eye contact. His hair flapped around in the gusts of wind that blew past them, creating a shield of sorts to hide the brunt of what his eyes would have betrayed him with, if he didn't already have a loose tongue. He could see the boy retreating back into his head, but they couldn't afford another bought of silence when so much was already at stake.

"And don't you bloody think it either!" Allan hissed, shaking Sawyer out of his head. "Look at me when I tell you this…What happened in that attic was _not _your fault. If it's a matter of blame, know that I blame no one but Moriarty for orchestrating that circus to begin with. _He_ brought us together. _He_ invaded our lives. And _he_ ended my own. Not you. You had _nothing_ do to with it because it was not your choice to make."

"Then why did ya go and get yourself killed like that?" Sawyer blurted.

Allan let go of Sawyers shoulders then, stowing his hands in the pockets of his pants, but he kept his feet planted. "It was only ever going to be either you or me. I would _never_ sacrifice you for another breath of life, no matter what the consequences would be. You're much too young to give your life up for anything, let alone anyone."

"That was my job description at the Secret Service," Tom muttered.

"Well, lucky for you, you're not under their jurisdiction out here in the middle of the ruddy ocean."

Tom huffed and focused on the white caps in the water. His knuckles started paling in their death grip on the iron railing, but Quatermain let both slide. At least he had the boy's attention.

"Now," he continued. "I don't expect all of that to soak into that thick skull of yours just yet. But, I will not tolerate seeing that guilt on your face, ever again…Do you understand me?"

Reluctantly, with hard-set eyes and a tense jaw, Tom nodded.

"Good. Turn around."

"Why?" he forced out.

"I want to show you something."

Curiosity worked just as Allan hoped it would. Tom turned with arms crossed. He stepped behind the spy and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. Predictably, he tensed up.

"I want you to look over there, just beyond the door. I want you to remember the last time we were up here, just you and I. Can you do that?"

Tom swallowed, clearly uncomfortable with the whole situation, but he nodded again.

"I want you to look at the boy stepping through the door, approaching me at the rail, and taking that gun from me to prove his worth. I want you to look at that boy, Tom, nowhere else. Take in every detail that you remember."

Little by little, Tom started to relax. His eyes were fixed on ghosts that Quatermain couldn't see anymore. To him the memory was transparent, but he knew it was much more palpable to the boy, and that was something that he knew he could use.

"Do you remember?"

"Yes," came the whispered reply.

"What is that boy thinking about while he's holding that rifle?"

"…nothing important."

"To someone else maybe, but what about him? He wouldn't be thinking it unless it meant something to him. What is that boy thinking about?"

"…nothing that I am. He's…happier."

"Is there so much of a difference between him and you?"

Tom's arms were still crossed, and Allan could practically smell the tears forming in the boy's eyes. Instinct told him that was all he was going to get out Tom today. It was an improvement, sure, but improvements as small as this would not measure up to the larger monster that was waiting to pounce upon its prey once again. Tom needed a better method of defense. Allan wasn't so sure the American would pick up on it just yet, but the seed was planted. And all the hunter could do was wait.

"Do us both a favor," Allan said, turning around before he descended the stairs. "And think about it."

* * *

Tom sighed and put a hand over his eyes, massaging the temples with lazy fingertips. The sound of the door shutting still echoed in his head. It sounded so abrupt and final…the very thing he felt that he didn't need to hear right now.

And Quatermain had gotten him talking. Tom winced at how easy it must have been for the older man. But then again, if anyone in the League was going to force words out of his mouth right now, it would have been Quatermain. He was happy it was Allan who came to find him, and not someone like Henry or Skinner, because he wasn't all that sure he could trust himself with anyone else.

'Damn him,' he thought.

The need to keep talking had never been as strong as what it was right now. Keeping quiet about everything didn't make him feel any better, but it didn't make him feel any worse. It kept him calm and made him feel safe, that there was still one part of him in all of this that could stay protected and clean…despite the darkest and most filthy secret about him that was waiting in the recesses. The problem was that it wasn't going away. He was left in the same position that he had been in for ten years, groping around for something to keep the candle lit so he wouldn't be engulfed by the weight of the secret.

Would it really be so terrible to tell someone? Talking to Allan about the guilt he felt over his death seemed to help. It was nice to know that Quatermain didn't blame him and was worried about him.

'But you know exactly what's gonna happen, Sawyer,' that familiar voice said. 'If you let it loose, everyone's gonna find out. People in numbers are harder to convince than one person.'

But if he made Allan promise not to tell anyone…

'How do you know he will? How do you know you can trust him? Can you trust anyone anymore? What makes you think he won't laugh in your face or that he'll be disgusted and leave?'

Because he promised. He promised Tom that he'd listen.

_"I want you to know that I will listen, whenever and wherever you need me to, no matter what it is. I will do nothing but listen. I won't judge you. I won't walk away from you."_

'Why does he care? He wasn't so warm before was he? What changed? Don't you think _he_ wants something out of this, that this ain't a completely selfless thing he's offerin' you?'

_ "It kills me to think that I may never see that brash and spirited young agent ever again because of that pain you think no one needs to see. You may not realize it now but your need for privacy will make you suffer more because of it."_

Was he suffering? Every damn day since that bastard forced himself into his life. Of course he was suffering. There was an open wound that refused to heal. At first he thought it was just superficial, but then he started to learn how deep it was, how hard it was to reach it. Tom wouldn't have been surprised if it went all the way down to his soul. It would have made sense. He could still hear a part of him screaming from it.

_ "You are denying yourself your own ability to feel, to be human. By keeping that secret you are allowing yourself to become one of them, someone like Richard Harding."_

When he heard those words for the first time it was like a cold hard slap in the face. The suddenness of it made him miss the point at first because he wasn't expecting it. Now though, it brought a cold down into him that he couldn't get rid of. Was that how it really started? Was he already on that road and didn't know it?  
'Of course not! You're _nothing_ like that piece of shit! The thought of doin' what he did to those boys has _NEVER_ crossed your mind. And if it ever did you know exactly what you'd do.'

His hand absently traced over the handle of one of his colts. There was no doubt in his mind that he'd put a bullet in his own brain if he needed to. He just prayed to whatever God there was, if there was one at all, that he'd never have to reach that point. He'd be a liar if he didn't admit that he thought about it a few times over the years, but that was only when things got real bad, when he thought he was losin' his mind from the fear and possibility that he never thought would be real again. The truth was that he was living in the nightmare that he'd always dreamed about.

Harding was back, Tom was what he wanted, and there was no chance in hell that he would stop until he got what he wanted. He severely doubted that he was going to be able to do this on his own, not with the League in the way. There were only two options that he could see…and he didn't like either of them.

He left the railing after a strong gust of wind and made his way back down from the conning tower. He was planning on making his way to his room until he saw a bunch of Nemo's men running down the hallway to and from the dining room. Curiosity got the better of him, and just about dragged his feet to the doorway where everyone was gathered around a set of papers on the table.

"What's goin' on?" he heard himself ask.

Everyone looked up, but it didn't bother Tom. The pause of silence that followed did. Some looked at others before turning hesitant eyes back to the youngest one in the room. But all of them had identical looks of determination set onto their faces. Did this mean they were going back out into the field?

"We received a message from Mycroft Holmes," Mina said. "They have made their move, but not the one we've been expecting."

* * *

_ Your spy is dead. You had best tell your brother, Mr. Holmes, that if he is to infiltrate my operation again then he need not come back with a superior means of deception unless he is prepared to leave in his own coffin. Can the world survive without its Sherlock Holmes? Better yet, can the world survive without its precious League to protect them from criminals such as myself? I think I've proven to you, especially, how easy it is for me to get what I want. And after tonight I'll trust that you won't underestimate the master of his greatest adversary ever again. _

_ Remember, I am your puppeteer, your measure, and your maker._

_ Your task is simple. Save London from itself. There are three weapons planted in the heart of this city, each timed to detonate at the stroke of ten. On the tenth chime, or perhaps before, you will begin to understand how far I've fallen from your tree of deception that you dare to call civilized and enlightened._

It was signed, _Tick, Tick, Tick_.

Allan had heard enough when both Holmes brothers and their doctor friend figured out what the targets were. Parliament, Westminster Abbey, and the clock tower? At first he wanted to laugh outright at the lunacy of it all, but when the detective explained all of it in painful detail there were no words that seemed fit to describe what he was thinking. Tom had followed after him, predictably, but that did not slow his pace. He barely had time to shout his intended destination before turning the corner in the darkening night.

He could give a damn about where the others intended to go. He was sick of the games and wanted all of it done and over with. God help that man if he even had the gall to be watching somewhere in the shadows. There was a pool of anger somewhere deep inside of him with roots that ran deeper into the recesses of his soul. But this was nothing new, just familiar and invigorating. It gave him purpose.

The idea of hurt, though natural and predictable in their present time, was, in essence, primitive and well beyond any human being with an intellect. Pain and suffering were for the weak. And a common fear among the weak is being left behind to the privacy of their own suffering. The desperation that normally follows captures anyone in its path and grips those unfortunate souls to within inches of their lives if they're not strong enough to resist. He'd lost count of how many times he'd fallen victim to them himself, but he was determined not to let it continue if he could help it. The only way he could do that was with eradicating this new threat and, if he had the chance, uprooting the source of it all.

"Where are we going?" Tom panted, trying to keep up.

"Look up," Allan replied, never faltering in his quick pace.

* * *

"Why does this seem so familiar?" Watson whispered, his voice echoing off the dank and wet walls around them.

"Watson, your memory truly is quite appalling if you don't recall the Blackwood case that nearly killed every single man in Parliament all those years ago?" Sherlock replied, equally as quiet. "I'd wager it sparked Professor Moriarty's obsession with economizing modern weaponry."

"I suppose when that didn't work he turned to chasing legends and myths?" Mina asked, attention focused on finding any abnormalities in the dark.

"One would assume, Ms. Harker," Sherlock said. "Although I do believe the correct verb would not be 'chasing,' but rather 'finding,' don't you think?"

"My point, _Holmes_," Watson interjected. "Is wouldn't it seem too obvious? If Harding had worked with Moriarty, don't you think he would have known about Blackwood?"

"Possibly," was the only reply Watson would ever get. No elaboration. No chance to regain a breath of preparation.

"There is a box chained to the ground a hundred meters in front of us," Mina whispered. "There are no guards."

"That can only mean one thing," Watson sighed. No one answered him, so he turned to where he supposed Holmes was in the dark. "I hope your picking skills have improved over the years, old chap."

"Well, if it's German, then I'm afraid we'll both know the outcome before our five minutes are up."

Watson could only close his eyes and grit his teeth. 'I'm getting too old for this,' he thought as he shrugged out of his coat and hobbled behind Holmes and Ms. Harker.

* * *

"This is impossible," Jekyll hissed.

The sheer size of Westminster abbey was one thing. A late mass with parishioners present was something completely different? How were they supposed to find this weapon and ensure the safety of these people without attracting the wrong attention?

"We must find that weapon, doctor," Nemo whispered back.

The shadows of the recessed apses would only hide them for so long. They didn't have much time left either. It wouldn't be a problem for Jekyll to search by himself but there would certainly be places he couldn't go, civilian or not. He ran a trembling hand through his hair and glanced at his watch for the sixth time.

"Where is Skinner?" he whispered. "He said he had an idea but I don't see a bloody thing!"

Then, as if on cue, their problems were solved. It was blasphemous, but it did the job quite effectively. Both men could barely hold back their amusement as they watched the golden plate holding the Eucharist, that the priest was currently blessing, lift off the altar. A dead silence filled the entire cathedral as the plate floated down the aisle. People stared and then started to follow it as it floated out the church doors. Once they were alone, both Jekyll and Nemo looked at the crowd as it continued down the road. Jekyll would have continued watching if Nemo hadn't grasped his shoulder.

"We have five minutes left," the captain said.

Both men started tearing through the church, running, jumping over chairs and tombs, between pillars and around corners. Time dwindled down to two minutes when Jekyll slid to a stop on the marble floor in front of a fairly recent entombment. He didn't need candlelight to tell him whose resting place this chained box rested over, and he also didn't need to glance at his watch to know that he needed Hyde, now.

"Nemo," he shouted over his shoulder.

He fumbled for the vial in his pocket and didn't think about the consequences as he poured the contents down his throat. He would never let go of this blame, of what needed to be done. His would-be mentor, his inspiration, his guiding light in the sciences would be at the mercy of his baser self. But he had no choice in the matter if Darwin's peace was to endure. He just prayed the rivets didn't run deep.

'Enlightenment, indeed,' he thought before Hyde tore through his consciousness.

* * *

Gaining access into the clock tower hadn't been the hard part. What they were doing right now was the hard part. Finding this God damned weapon, wherever it was, was like finding a drop of liquor on a Sunday back home, before he knew where to look. Tom took a second to wipe the sweat that had collected on his forehead. The staircases and landings all seemed so similar that it was hard to tell which ones he had rechecked already without looking down to judge by the distance.

Each time he had to he had to reorient himself. America had _nothing_ on this clock tower as far as heights went. He'd rested his rifle somewhere a few flights down when he realized that the only way he was getting back up was without the extra weight. He still had his colts against his chest. The long coat was shed on the last landing to save what dry patches were left on his drenched shirt.

"Find anything yet," Allan called from one flight above.

"No," Tom replied looking up to the next landing. "This is crazy! How're we supposed to find this thing? We've been up and down this tower twice already! We've only got about five minutes left and we don't even know what this thing looks like!"

"Let's try the top again."

Tom didn't have time to protest as Quatermain promptly turned his back and started the trek upwards. He paused for a brief moment to utter a strong curse and reluctantly followed. He was surprised to find that Allan had waited for him. The sight of the perspiring hunter quelled some of his frustration, but it didn't look like Allan was in the best of moods either.

"We'll find this thing," he said with determination in his eyes.

"Sure about that," Tom asked between breaths.

"More than you from what it looks like."

Together they climbed the remaining stairs to the last landing before the top of the tower. By that time there was only a minute left and panic started to blossom in Tom's chest. He couldn't see a damn thing and they were nearly at the top of this damned clock tower. But then he looked up and noticed something on the side supports that were holding the landing aloft.

"Allan," Tom shouted.

'There's no time,' he thought as he ran and jumped over the railing.

"Tom!"

Tom put both hands out to the side as he tried to balance himself. The problem was that he couldn't run to the chained box. Precious seconds ticked by as he stepped closer and Quatermain yelled at his back. When he reached the box he tugged at the chains and was horrified to find that it was riveted to the wooden support. He pulled and tugged with all his might but the box wouldn't move. He turned panicked eyes to Quatermain who met his with an outstretched hand and a decision already made.

"Leave it," he hollered above the chimes that had begun to toll in the tower.

The volume of the bells disoriented him for a second as he tried to regain his balance. He sprinted across the beam, hating himself for giving up with every step. In the last few feet his foot landed on the edge of the support and he very nearly would have fallen over if Allan hadn't been there to grab hold of his right arm. His left arm caught the railing to stop his body from descending but he couldn't pull himself up. It was Quatermain who hauled him over the railing just as the deafening sound of an explosion drowned out the last chime.

The next thing he remembered was waking up with a smoldering piece of wood across his chest. He shoved it off and turned on his side, coughing with watery eyes. He looked up and noticed that they had only fallen to the next level down. So that was why they were still alive. They. Wait. Tom looked around for Quatermain and froze at the sight of the old hunter across the way behind a mess of debris with a bloody face. Once the shock had passed he forced Allan's name past his own bloody lips, his voice hoarse from the smoke. The hunter didn't stir.

Tom gritted his teeth and tried to crawl his way over to the trapped man, biting back a cry of pain and annoyance at what was probably a twisted ankle and another dislocated shoulder. The small trek that he was able to make left him with more cuts and scratches…and he would have said they were worth it if a strong hand that gripped his dislocated shoulder hadn't stopped him and pulled him over. He let loose a scream as his back connected with the hard floor. His eyes closed on instinct until he could fight back the waves of pain. And when he could he looked to see who had…

…

…

_No._

His eyes opened wide.

_ That's…_

He couldn't breathe or move.

_ It can't…_

Tears had fallen down the sides of his face.

_ He's not REAL!_

But he was. His hands were holding Tom down. They were splayed on his chest and shoulder, keeping the worst of the tremors that racked his body, unseen.

_ It was a dream…_

But here he was. His hair was thinner, grayer. His left cheek had the same horrible scar. His eyes still sparkled with menace. He was older. Tom fought against analyzing the features he had only seen in his nightmares to preserve the unknown that plagued him for these past few weeks…but he lost. He lost everything in that endless moment where his attacker loomed suspended above him. Intense and familiar fear shrank him smaller than he thought possible. His want to thrash wildly or scream in terror had both been neutralized by the unveiling of his faceless attacker and childhood…rapist.

"Breeeeathe," Harding whispered as he let his face fall closer to Tom's.

A gasp burst free and he greedily breathed what air in that he could. He had to close his eyes. But that didn't stop the tears that followed, nor the feeble sounds that laced his attempt at breathing, not passing out.

"Open those beautiful eyes."

He sobbed and tried to shift under the weight of those hands, but had to obey when one of them seized his throat and squeezed. Once he did the pressure disappeared…but the touch remained. He was trapped in a body that was deaf to his mind crying for action, for defense.

"You know what I want," he said.

Tom shook his head slowly, dreading what was going to come.

"Listen to me, boy! Look at Quatermain…LOOK AT HIM!"

Tom cried harder but listened when Harding put more pressure on his shoulder.

"It would be so easy for me to finish him, to finish your League for that matter. Do you want that? No? You keep running and that's what's going to happen. Now. You want to protect your 'family'? You want me to stop all the fucking around? Then you come to me. Tonight. Alone. You'll know where. Holmes has made sure of it by telling you what I've been up to while looking for you."

He lingered, eyes tracing his face, fingers restless on his chest and exposed throat.

"It's always been your choice, Thomas. Everything that's happened is because of _you_. Remember that. I'm giving you one last chance. Don't fuck it up!"

And as quickly as Harding had appeared, he was gone, like his nightmares… but a million times worse than his nightmares. He was real. He had been here. And…touched him…stars started filling his vision. The tears were still falling, but harder than ever now. He forced himself to breathe, trying to convince himself that he was not crying or that the sounds he was making was out of pain and not fear.

It was a loud groan from somewhere below him that broke through the shock. He felt the vibration and whipped his head to the side where Quatermain was breathing and stirring. Somehow he found the will to move. But even the familiar sight of Allan's eyes couldn't comfort him now. He knew what he had to do.

* * *

**I hope this makes up for that last chapter, even if the beginning is a BIT cliché, what with the weather and all. And I could have left you with a cliffhanger but I decided not to…because I think cliffhangers are evil. The game plan from here on out is that I'm going to start writing these chapters in bulk so I don't keep skipping weeks. And I still read reviews, so thank you big time for those boosts of confidence because they're always helpful! I could probably use a few after these crappy weeks I've been having. Let me know what you think!**

**-Rainsaber**

**Ps. As a preview for the next chapter 3 characters' lives will be put into question. Any guesses? One hint: one of them did not speak at all in this chapter.**

**And yes if you're wondering about the title of this chapter it was borrowed from the new Linkin Park single that's out. If it hadn't been for that song this chapter would not exist and I'd still be banging my head against a wall. Plus I think the word fits.**

**Also the Blackwood case Sherlock and Watson are talking about was a reference to the recent Sherlock Holmes movie. I'm still trying to find a balance between the Robert Downey Jr. portrayal and the character in Conan Doyle's stories, so bear with me.**

**And one more important piece of business. Nothing was meant by the Westminster Abbey section. I grew up Catholic and still believe in God. I just kind of wrote myself into a corner and thought...hey, invisible man...i could use that! So, no offense to anyone at all!**


	15. Fragmented

***Just a warning for the last section towards the end. I don't want to give too much away but it's worth noting that it may make some people a little uncomfortable.***

**Chapter Fifteen****—Fragmented **

Pen scratched against paper. The candle flame was close to drowning in the puddle of wax, but its master paid it no heed. Mycroft continued his work, glancing up every five minutes, dreading the sound of an explosion that would, inevitably, jolt his handwriting off the page in an obscene mess. His pen did not jolt, however. It stopped completely.

He held his breath at the creak his doorknob made as it slowly turned and the door was pushed open. He could tell from the heavy footsteps, and the fact that he had checked the time two minutes ago, that it was not his brother, nor any members of the League. The door was pushed to. He did not look up. He did not move. He thought, considered his options, and made a difficult decision, sparing himself only one comfort before he sprung from his chair.

* * *

The air was thick. Sweat was pouring down his face. A mixture of something salty and metallic was coating his lips. He was choking. He was being dragged. His feet could never seem to stay on the ground long enough. His knees kept buckling under his own weight, despite some of it being supported. There was no sound. But he knew he wasn't dead. The pain reminded him of it.

What did he remember? …stairs…height…time.

Where was he? …London…a warm room with…others.

Who were they? …one woman…men…a boy.

He pried his eyes open and gained a glance of a messy head of hair to his right. There was a hand on his forearm. It was strong. Young. A boy's. His eyes closed again. Watery. Stinging. Weary. He felt old. He felt time weighing him down. Couldn't he rest? Couldn't he just stop? Not even for a moment? Didn't he deserve that much? His body was screaming for it…but why couldn't the boy hear it?

The boy. A young boy. A son. He remembered a son. He had a son…once. A long time ago. His son. His…Harry. Why wouldn't Harry let him rest? He needed to rest, to stop moving. He couldn't feel his legs. Sensation was being pulled inward. He was falling, but he was also being pulled. The cold ground made his eyes peel back.

…that boy was not his son. His eyes closed again. The rest. It would make the pain go away, make things clearer. But there were hands on his chest. Fists. Angry. Something made his face wet. Small drops of water. Tears. Sound rushed back as his memory slid back into place. The boy shouted at the top of his lungs. Someone's name. Not his. But someone else's.

* * *

Skinner laughed to himself as he jogged back to Westminster Abbey. Who would have thought those blokes would'v been so damn gullible? Either way, he wasn't complaining. It worked just as he hoped it would. And by the sign that nothin' was blowin' into the night sky yet—

The explosion and sudden dumping of the Thames river on top of him made him curse out loud. He slipped on the cobblestones, snorting and spitting the foul water out of his mouth and nose. Had he walked under a ladder recently? His luck just wasn't what it used to be, and it was starting to get on his bloody nerves. He was tired, hungry, and now he was shivering. The last thing he needed was a cold after getting out from under Jekyll's nose with that bullet wound.

'Well, so much for invisibili'y,' he thought.

There really was only one thing to do after being drenched in smelly cold water. And that entailed getting his blood pumping and body temperature up. Even though he was leaving a clear wet trail behind him it was something he had to sacrifice if he wanted to make it back to the others in one piece. Even as an invisible man, he knew when to keep to himself and when to seek shelter in the company of others…even if he smelled like a wet dog.

It should have made him happy, he supposed. At least it hadn't started raining building stones and cement spires. The doctor certainly looked worse for wear when Rodney spotted him. Nemo didn't look any better. You'd think the boys had just finished running for their lives. And here Skinner walked up having just escaped the brunt of that bloody bomb. It was insulting, it was.

"Alrigh' there, mate?" Skinner asked.

"Those…those short doses," Jekyll panted.

"Get the bloody job done, doc. Nice work. Didn' know you was aimin' for me, though."

"Thought…thought I heard something," Jekyll said with a faint smile.

"Our weapon," Nemo said. "Seems to have been nothing more than a common explosive."

"Bit an-iclimadic ain't it?"

"Doesn't…it doesn't make…sense."

"Maybe Holmesy can make heads or tails of it."

"Perhaps," Nemo replied. "You haven't seen or heard of Mrs. Harker?"

"Noffin. Bu' by the looks of it…"

Skinner glanced up at the clock tower to note the time. It was just about fifteen minutes after ten…well, that wasn't right…the time…but that's not what stopped him from speaking. It was dark, but he could clearly see smoke rising out from the top of the tower. The tower had been one of Harding's targets. A familiar and innocent face came to the forefront of his mind. And when he was finally able to speak, after Nemo and Jekyll had gone silent as well, a trace of worry laced the words that fell out of his mouth.

"Didn' Sawyer and Quatermain take the tower?"

It wasn't long after that silent revelation among the three men that a scream echoed across the streets. "JEKYLL! SOMEBODY! HELP!" It was loud. It was close. And it sounded desperate, almost nothing like the owner at all.

"Agent Sawyer," Nemo declared.

Skinner took off, leaving Nemo to gather up the doctor. Rodney wasn't so sure that Henry could do much in the state he was in, but anything was better than nothing at this point. It was not fear that made his heart hammer in the confines of his chest. He was tired from all the physical exertion. It was a coincidence that he stumbled when he saw Sawyer across the courtyard with dirt, smoke, and burn marks covering most of his white shirt and face. But he did admit that when he saw Quatermain lying on the ground, bloody, he was worried.

* * *

"I need a drink," Watson sighed.

They were walking, breathing, still living…and more than just a little confused. He was thankful that he and his companions were still alive, but the mystery at hand outweighed his relief. A simple explosive device hidden beneath a difficult German lock? It was designed for difficulty, to ensure frustration and abandonment. But, if that was the case, why hadn't there been a larger amount of powder used, or why hadn't there been multiple boxes chained within the vicinity? Had the device actually exploded, as it was said to have been timed to, it would have done little to no structural damage in the underbelly of Parliament on its own.

They had searched the entire area and found no other boxes planted or hidden. Mrs. Harker had made sure of that. Had it all been a ruse? But for what purpose? To what end? Who was his intended target if not London itself? Was it one person? The likelihood of it being more than one—

"I said I could use a drink…Holmes?"

A smile ghosted his lips. Watson. Always trying to distract him from the puzzle. He'd grown used to it over the years. More often than not he appreciated the gestures and efforts. His own mind, sometimes, kept him from being objective. And somehow, Watson learned what role he needed to play very early on. The gratitude came back, but this time it was directed at his brother by his side. Blood was no matter to Sherlock Holmes. He was just happy that his blundering in the dark hadn't cost either of them. He wasn't so sure he could live with the consequences if something had happened to Watson. Note to self: keep self-discoveratory facts to self. Can't go letting on that he was, in fact and after all, human.

"Not to worry, Watson," Sherlock whispered. "I know where Mycroft keeps his Brandy when I come to visit."

"You mean when you break into his office?" Watson replied with a cheeky grin.

"I could make use of that drink as well," Mina quipped. "If I'm not being too forward, _gentlemen_."

Watson beat him to it, being that he was taken aback for half a second by the amount of sass that had been tied on the end of that statement. "Indeed, you are not, Mrs. Harker." The thunk from his cane, which was supporting more and more of his weight over the past few blocks, steadily became louder. Perhaps a carriage was in order. "I daresay one evening out with this Holmes is enough to make any decent man ask for a strong shot after the first half hour. I'm surprised at your endurance."

He turned to glare at Watson in the dark, but the good doctor ignored him because Mrs. Harker smiled back. Typical and expected. Sherlock smiled, however, when his foot 'accidentally' bumped into the cane, knocking it slightly off balance. Well, just enough to wake the poor man from his ludicrous daydreaming, even if part of the glare he received was a bit pained.

"Endurance?" Sherlock questioned. "Interesting choice of word, Watson."

"What the bloody hell are you going on about?"

"Use your powers of observation and _note_," Sherlock hissed. "The _obvious_ flaw in that fantasy of yours!"

"Holmes, you are spouting nonsense."

"I? I? Watson, I most certainly do not _spout_ anything, at all, ever!"

"Well, what in the world are you doing right now?"

Sherlock lowered his voice to barely audible levels. "Trying to save a dear fellow from turning over to the dark side."

Whether Mrs. Harker heard it or not was unknown. But it was no matter. The puzzle had pounced right back upon his mind as if he were some fresh carrion. He was vaguely aware of making his way up staircases, through long hallways, past numerous doors, all because he was incensed that he was missing something very important. He hadn't even noticed that he was now leading their small group, having overtaken Mrs. Harker some time ago. There was the criminal history to consider, the inside information he'd fished out, the waiting period between then and his next move. Then came the letter, the threats, the nearly harmless explosives. What was the connective thread? Distraction. Want. What was his goal? Something or someone?

It all clicked into place outside of the door to his brother's office. His hand shot out to prevent anyone from going inside. He didn't blink. He could only stare at the door that hadn't been closed the entire way. It clicked. It made sense. But he couldn't move, wouldn't move.

"What is it?" Mrs. Harker voiced.

"Holmes—"

His hand shot up. He needed quiet. His ear pressed to the cold wood. There was no sound. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Watson draw his pistol. He was aware of the fact that he should have drawn his own revolver but he was unable to tear his focus away from the unclosed door. He forced air out through his nostrils when his jaw refused to loosen. Pushing the door open had been easy. It was not heavy at all and required, practically, no force whatsoever. A breath of air would have been sufficient. And, ironically, it was a breath of air that he needed, that he had subconsciously denied himself of until the strength of his limbs threatened to give out.

"Oh God," Watson murmured behind him.

The room was dark and cold. The wind from outside was blowing into the room through a broken window. There was little glass on the floor. Most of it would be on the ground below. Papers from the desk were littering the opposite corner of the room. A bottle of ink was overturned. He had been busy. The chair was in pieces. Used as a weapon. Self-defense. The desk itself was off-center. He'd been thrown across the room. The lamp was in the middle of the floor. Another weapon. Pieces here and there. In a puddle. A dark puddle.

The smell of blood that wafted to his nose broke his focus, started a stream of possibilities flowing through his head. Images of what was likely to have happened were all he could see. Fear seized the muscles in his chest. He was trembling. He reached out to steady himself. Watson was there, pulling him back. He was trying to move forward, trying to prove to himself that he was wrong, that his twisted mind out of some craving for the needle made it up. But Watson staying his forward motion proved it right.

"Sherlock, take a breath!"

He had to force air into his lungs. He had to…think-No. Can't think. Breathe. Yes. Breathing felt…harsh. Sounded strange. More like gasping. Can't stop. Need…

He grasped Watson's hand so hard he could feel the doctor, who was holding him up, wince. But he didn't feel guilty. He needed to know that while he had possibly lost one brother, the other was still alive and well at his side. "John," he rasped.

The reassuring squeeze back nearly made the tears in his eyes fall.

* * *

The only way to describe Tom Sawyer right now was with one word. Numb. His feet were still moving. He felt like a mindless excuse for a human being because he felt nothing at all. He was acting without thinking. If someone told him to jump off a bridge he was afraid he would actually do it. Things might not have been as dramatic as that, but as far as he was concerned it was damn close enough.

Nemo had gone back to Headquarters in hopes of finding Mina. He'd succeeded. Things were starting to become a blur. He and Skinner were supporting Allan on their way back to the Nautilus. The carriage was a given. Skinner and Jekyll had tried to get him to talk but he couldn't. Physically, he couldn't. There was just too much for him to take in. Allan was growing paler by the second. His breathing was getting harder to hear. Tom caught wind of something that happened to Mycroft Holmes, something about him being kidnapped.

It made no sense. None of it did. What would Harding want with the elder Holmes? Why hadn't he just taken Tom when he had the chance? Wasn't he what the man wanted? Maybe he took Mycroft as insurance? That had to be it. Harding had been right. Everything was because of him. Everything. Quatermain wouldn't dying right next to him, Mycroft Holmes wouldn't be missing, none of the League would have been hurt or involved at all. It was making him dizzy. There was just too much for him to process.

They made it to the docks. Nemo's doctors took charge of Quatermain once they crossed the threshold. Everyone seemed to be on autopilot. Sawyer just watched as everyone disappeared down the hallway towards the infirmary. He stood there, alone, swaying on his feet. He felt dead inside. He couldn't sit outside that infirmary again. Not again. He had been afraid this would happen…and it did…and he needed to stop it before it got any worse. His jaw trembled under the resolve that was already rooted in his heart. He was absolutely terrified of what he had to do. But it was his only shot. And he had to take it. He had to make things right. He had to make things right. He had to.

"Sawyer?" Skinner asked. "Tom? You alrigh', kid?"

And he would.

"It's my fault," he whispered, tears falling from his eyes.

"Kid, I doubt you was the one who gave Quatermain that—"

The groan was incredibly loud. The thud of a body, that no one could see, on the iron floor was louder. His fist hurt. He blinked. But it was a necessary evil. He had to do it. Skinner never would have let him go otherwise. What was one more piece of guilt on top of everything he had so far? If it meant making up for everything, for one chance to make it all right, it was worth it.

"I'm sorry," was all that Tom said before he jumped out of the loading bay of the Nautilus and ran.

He ran even as he heard the alarms in the distance of the ship sinking beneath the surface. He stopped behind a pile of crates and watched as he was left to himself. Once the ship was gone a dam had broken loose in him. The loneliness and isolation, was suffocating. He leaned against the crates, put a hand over his face, and let himself cry. Quatermain was right. It was horrible, being alone. As he scrubbed at his face and caught his breath he vowed that once this was over, if he survived it, he would be done with hiding.

It had been done to him when he didn't know any better. He hadn't wanted it, but it had been done. And he bore the weight of that for years, by himself, when he knew damn well that his Aunt Polly had been in the next room, when Huck hadn't been too far down the road, when Quatermain had offered a free ear and open mind. Tom had been selfish all this time. He was starting to realize how much of a bad thing it had been, and not just for him, but for his friends…and family.

But he could make it right. He could. And he would

His fingers fumbled as he checked the number of bullets in the barrels of both his colts. Then he took a deep breath and looked up at the night sky. How many times had he done this on his own? He could count the number of solo missions on one hand. He could do that because he remembered how stubborn Huck was. It brought a smile to his face, even though it was brief. And it reminded him that Huck would have been with him every step of the way if he were still alive. Situation aside, when there was danger involved, Huck didn't give a rat's ass as long as he was there to make sure Tom made it out.

"Might be seein' ya soon, Huck," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I really am. But I gotta do this. I have to. Please, understand."

It hadn't taken him long to get to his destination. It was still dark by the time he got there. The trees didn't help either. He could barely see where he was going. Sawyer's Hill was nothing like Missouri, but the soft swaying of the trees and the shadows at play brought back painful memories anyway. Branches snapped behind him. He whirled, pistol out and ready, but nothing was there.

"Come on, you son of a bitch," he muttered. "Where are you?"

He walked around for another twenty minutes before he started to get angry. That bastard goes to the trouble to get his attention and then ensure that he will get Tom at a certain place at a certain time and then has the gall to keep playing mind games? He had his fill. He was done. So he aimed his pistol at a nearby tree and pulled the trigger.

"HARDING!" he screamed. "SHOW YOUR FACE, YOU COWARD!"

And right on cue the man emerged from some shrubbery to Tom's left. He turned and aimed his gun, fighting down the bile that threatened to rise up. The anger stayed because he made it stay. Anger kept him from losing control. And right now that was the last thing he wanted to lose. Not in front of this man. Not again. He wouldn't let it happen.

"Always causing attention to ourselves, aren't we?" Harding said.

Tom clenched his jaw shut.

"You never fail to surprise me, Thomas—"

"DON'T say my name," Tom replied, if a bit shaky.

"Then how am I to address you, boy?"

The gun wavered, and he almost cursed himself for it. "You ain't gonna say nothin'. You're gonna listen to what _I _have to say."

"Really now?"

"Let's get one thing straight. This is between you and me. No one else. I may not know where you took Mycroft Holmes but I don' need your sorry ass to find out where to look."

"Ashamed of what you are, Thomas?"

"I am _nothing_ like you! I don't…hurt little boys and murder them to cover it up. I don't…attack women and throw their bodies in the river because I'm too much of a coward to fess up to it!"

"Do you want to know why I did those things?"

He took a step forward. Tom took a reflexive step back. "N-no, I'm—I'm not finished—"

"What else _can _you say if you can't even say the word?"

Tom's shaking intensified and he bit his bottom lip. He couldn't say it and he knew it. He wanted so much to throw it in the man's face—Harding was walking forward. Not one step. Multiple steps. He wasn't testing the waters anymore. And that made Tom freeze when he got too close. In a flash, his gun was no longer in his hand. Tom made a grab for the other pistol in his holster but Harding was quicker. His arms were trapped by strong hands. His back was pressed against a large tree. He tried to fight back but the fear of being touched kept him from breaking free.

All he could do was close his eyes and try to imagine that this was not happening again.

"Such a brave, brave little boy," Harding hissed. "Confronting his fears all alone. What did you think would happen, Thomas? Did you think you could just end it all? Do you honestly think you are strong enough to kill me?"

"If I have to take you with m-me then that's what—that's what I'm gonna do—"

"Shame your body doesn't share the same sentiment!"

Tom gasped as Harding ground his hips into his own. A small sound came out of his mouth. This was not happening. It couldn't. He needed to finish what he started. He needed to end this. He needed his body to listen to him. But there wasn't enough space or air to think.

"You can't even look at me, can you?" The man jeered. "Such a bloody little tease."

"Get off-off a m-me," he tried to say.

"Or what will happen? It's obvious you came alone. That was your first mistake."

Hot air danced across the skin of his face. "Stop!" he whispered.

"You have a lot to learn, Thomas. Lucky for you that I'm such a willing teacher!"

Hands were at his throat, squeezing. He struggled to get up, to thrash around, to knock Harding off of him but it was no use. All he could see were images of those boys. Innocent faces peering up at him through the dark. Their eyes wouldn't let him go. They blamed him. He knew they did. He needed forgiveness. He needed to—The last thing he felt was his eyes rolling into the back of his head and the ghosting of a touch on his chest. He couldn't die here. Not here. Not alone. Help.

* * *

******And the shit hits the fan! …or at least the first pile. **Bet you didn't see that one, did ya? Obviously, your 3 unfortunate victims here were Mycroft Holmes, Tom Sawyer, and Allan Quatermain. :( Poor Sherlock. But I had to do it. All will make sense in the next chapter or two. Sorry for the lateness...again. I'm evil. 

**Reviewwwwwws are sooooo nice to read :) *wink wink***

**-Rainsaber**


	16. Musings of Morpheus

***The second to last section with Harding may make some people uncomfortable***

**Chapter Sixteen****—Musings of Morpheus**

_A small purple pansy twirled in front of his face. He had to squint against the sun to see that there was a small hand holding the stem, delicate fingers rubbing against each other, going in and out of focus, in and out of a small area of shade created by such a little thing. He reached out, but another hand caught his. A girl leaned in close. Two blonde braids of hair reached him first._

"_Here's my promise," she whispered, placing the flower in his hand._

_He didn't say a word. But she smiled, just as bright as the sun behind her head. A smile of his own tugged at his lips. Seeing her happy…She leaned in closer. The smile was gone. And so was his. He felt nervous. Tom Sawyer was nervous. Their faces were so close they were practically touching. He could almost feel her lips on his. Instinctively, he swallowed and tried to grab some courage._

"_Becky," he breathed. _

_Her eyes opened, cold. "You wanted this," she said._

But it wasn't Becky who said it. Her voice was different. It just wasn't her. The light was gone. It was dark. But she was still there. Someone was still there, right above him. Breaths danced across his face, hot and heavy. An unpleasant smell lingered. He tried to move, tried to turn away, but he couldn't move. Something was touching him, settling on his chest, wide and firm.

"Ssshhh," the voice urged.

"_The hell are you thinkin'," Huck asked, exasperated._

"_What?" Tom replied. Huck looked at him in the darkness, eyes gleaming from the light that spilled in from the other, recently vacated, room._

"_Shushin' me like that when we got those three goons in the other room figurin' their plan over a deck a cards?"_

_Tom leaned against the doorframe and chanced a smile. "Well, they ain't anymore."_

"_Yeah, they're gone now. Ya' ever think they might'a heard ya, Tom?"_

_He shrugged. "What if they did? Probably just spooked 'em the way they were goin' on 'bout those ghost stories an' all. 'Sides, we got plenty of time to catch up 'fore they reach the ferry."_

"_That's not the point, Tom! We shouldn't have to keep chasin' after these guys. We're better agents than that!"_

"_I know," Tom said, matter of fact. "Service takes the fun out it though. And where you comin' off Mr. I-ain't-gettin'-sivilized-no-way-no-how? Don't you dare tell me you'd rather have a stupid standoff before you get the chance to see what these idiots can do."_

"_Well, it s__ure as hell'd be a lot easier. And a lot less paperwork." _

_Tom looked up and saw that Huck finally cracked a smile. Tom grinned. "You're welcome."_

_Huck's face changed. "I should hate you."_

A hand grabbed his neck, squeezed. His head thrashed from side to side. Slow. Cloudy. Tilting up. Need air. The pressure—

_He clutched the sheets tightly in his white fists. His hair was being patted down. His back was being rubbed. It was impossible to look anywhere else other than the candle flame on his beside table. _

"_Did ya hear me, Tom?" his Aunt Polly asked. "Just a nightmare. Just a silly nightmare. You go on back to sleep now, ya hear? I won't leave til ya do."_

_What had he been afraid of? What had made him scream his voice dry and wake the whole house? He was cold. His Aunt had to pile two more blankets on top of him. He didn't want her to leave. The comfort felt nice. She was humming. Humming low while the candle flickered. The wax dripped and pooled. The wick burned down to a black nub before the flame extinguished. _

"_Because I know how much you hate me."_

He gasped for air. And it filled his deprived lungs like cold arctic water. He coughed and sputtered, tried to speak, tried to make his eyes focus. Vertigo. Nausea. Chills. Soreness…everywhere. Pounding headache. Someone pushed the hair out of his face, but those hands didn't belong to his aunt. He wanted to throw up but there was nothing to throw up. How long had it been since he had eaten something?

_He looked up, saw Quatermain by his bedside. He leaned in close in the darkness. "You're confused. You've forgotten where that hate comes from. But don't worry. I'll make you remember." Remember? Remember what?_

_

* * *

_

Jekyll adjusted the blanket that was covering Allan for the third time after taking his temperature. The injury on the side of his head had been a serious one, but luckily it was the only injury that he sustained. The only problem was that he still hadn't woken up. It had been hours, and although that was nothing out of the norm for head injuries, he was starting to worry that he may have to consider the fact that it may be a significant amount of time before the hunter wakes…—_Better if the old codger stays dead this time_—

"You know I can't allow that if it's within my power, Edward," he replied.

Hyde growled. –_What power? You're nothing, Henry. _I'm_ the one you turn to when the League calls. _I'm_ the one who saved your mentor from oblivion beyond the grave. _I'm_ the one the vampire looks to when—_

"Be Quiet," he yelled.

Something shuffled behind him. Jekyll turned around and held his breath, face burning from embarrassment. She was there. She could have heard him. Had she? He had to look up to know. He could almost hear Hyde rearing with another deprecating insult, so he beat him to the punch…and found that Mina looked exhausted…not uncomfortable like he feared.

"How is he?" Mina asked.

Henry cleared his throat. "The ah….the external injury should clear up b-but…I'm still not sure about the extent of the d-damage."

Compassion filled her face immediately. "Will he wake?" The harsher features that he'd grown used to were gone. Something was different, strange, and wrong. This wasn't the Mina Harker he knew. What had changed?

"I don't know," he whispered.

She placed a hand over her mouth and sat down in a chair. He watched as she closed her eyes and ran one of her delicate hands across her face, combing through her hair. Her shoulders hunched. Her arms were lead. It was too much. Too much for him to process. Dare he ask? Could he even get the words out of his mouth?

"How is your leg?" he opted for.

"The same, I'm afraid," she whispered.

"Is that what's bothering you?"

"I don't know." Her face crumpled before his eyes. And the worst part was that he wasn't sure what to do. Kneeling by her side hadn't helped. He was certain that pulling her into his arms would make it worse. All he could do was watch, in shock, and listen.

"I worry, both for myself and for Tom, for the League. We're the pieces of a game that none of us know. This should have been finished months ago. We've been careless and now two of us are paying the price. How many more need we lose before this is over?"

"Mina…" His hand lifted on its own, touched her wet cheek in hopeless abandon, and came back clean. But somehow, she wasn't surprised. She stared at his glistening hand with indifference.

"There's no blood…" he voiced. "Mina, how is th-that possible?"

Hyde was silent. His eyes burned into Henry's skull, but he said nothing. Fear was starting to come to a boil in his gut. Things were happening beyond his realm of medical and physiological knowledge, and there was nothing he could do to weather the storm. He was a bystander. And he didn't like it one bit.

"This is who I was," she replied. "Who I used to be before you knew me. It was an antidote, Henry. They've done what I've always thought was impossible."

Henry was speechless for a moment. "Is this what you want?"

"I've always thought…"

"Mina, is this what you want?"

She didn't have an answer. And he didn't have the time to say anything more. In the doorway, Nemo stood beside an invisible, but plainly bruised face. In comparison to Mina, Nemo looked to have stolen her austere nature. Something had happened. And immediately, with some guilt, his thoughts turned to one person.

"Where's Tom?" he asked.

Nemo sighed, with effort. "A complication has occurred, doctor."

* * *

It had been hard work tearing Sherlock from his brother's office. In fact, Watson wasn't even sure how he'd managed to do it. But all that mattered was that they were back at Baker Street, fire blazing, tea steeping, and Holmes brooding. The only problem was that he wasn't pacing, he wasn't emblazoned with energy and thoughts coursing through his mind at an inhuman speed. Sherlock Holmes sat in his chair by the fireplace like dead weight, respiration slow, and eyes sharp as a fresh knife.

Watson was sure that Holmes was thinking, but he had never seen his friend so immobilized. He hadn't even made a move for his pipe, which was within reach. The best that Watson could do, he realized, was to get Holmes talking, to put spoken word to the thoughts that were keeping him caged up in such an uncharacteristic manner. So he poured two cups of tea, offered Holmes one, placed it next to the chair when he didn't move, and settled into the other chair by the fireside, ready to stretch what mental muscles he'd developed under the detective's influence.

"It was in plain sight," Watson began. "Why would he do that? Why place an explosive where it would easily be found if the whole purpose was to achieve detonation?"

Silence.

"Why the German lock if he could have just as easily taken the time to hide the box in a better location? Matter of fact, how did he know to put a German lock on that box beneath Parliament. He could have heard of our involvement with the Blackwood case, but how could he be sure? Maybe all the boxes had German locks. None of them went off, by the way."

Still…silence.

So much for drawing Holmes out of his head. At least one of them could be the productive one. Watson was just disappointed that it had to be him after such a long night. "Alright, John…why? Why? Why? Why did he do it? It should be simple...plain as..."

If ever there was a moment to be described with the lighting of a light bulb, now would have been the opportune moment. "Because they were never a threat. Those damned boxes were a distraction from what he really wanted." He sat back in the chair, more amazed at himself for putting it together than proud of actually demonstrating that he was capable of the things that Holmes did on a daily basis.

"Their agent and my brother," was the whispered reply that Watson had been waiting for.

The walls of ice were slowly starting to thaw, and as a glimmer of hope, Watson was given a glance of the Sherlock he knew. But he wasn't a fool. He knew that Holmes wouldn't return to his old self until Mycroft was returned to them…and in good health. But, as Holmes had taught him, emotions would only serve as a distraction when it came to the work that needed to be done. Watson hated the idea, but the reality was that he would have to take more of an active role than he was used to with Holmes on this one. It was just abnormal for the both of them.

"But why?" Watson asked. "Why take the American after all this time?"

"That is a simple enough answer for you, Watson. Obsession. Why else?"

"Alright, but why your brother? Why take Mycroft if all Harding wanted was Tom Sawyer?"

Silence reigned again. And Watson found that he had to suppress a sigh of agitation. He'd gotten Holmes speaking, and that, to him, was a hurdle superbly conquered. But it hadn't been for long. If this were any prediction of how the case would progress, of how Holmes would so quickly descend into something akin to the black moods he fell into between cases, Watson had his work cut out for him, with sharp edges.

"We will get him back, Holmes. You know that."

"There was blood on the floor," he stated. "He hadn't expected it. He fought with his attacker but all was futile. It would take a strong man to overpower, Mycroft. But there was no blood on any of the items used in the altercation. There was only blood on the floor."

"Brought his own weapon, took it with him…"

"Knives don't cause such erratic smears of blood. There should have been clean lines and pools of it on the floor."

"It could have been shallow, Holmes, aggravated by the struggle."

"You and I both know there was too much for it to have been a superficial injury."

Holmes let his voice fall down to a nearly inaudible level of volume as he curled back into himself. Although Sherlock wasn't showing much, to Watson he was baring everything he was attempting to hide. Watson was witness to Holmes' vulnerability, a hint of hopelessness, and, most frightening of all, his self-doubt. After all the cases and life-threatening instances that the two of them had been through over the years, it was rather insulting that Holmes chose this moment to let his cold façade break down. But maybe that was precisely the issue. There was too much at stake.

But he refused to believe that it was too much for Holmes. He had been there for the detective when he had made his mistakes, the few miscalculations that either cost him a case or weeks in bed after a nearly fatal injury. It had taken a little bit of time, but Holmes had rallied and gotten over himself. Now, it wouldn't be as easy. And Watson was in a completely unfamiliar territory with his comrade. From here on out it would be a guessing game for the both of them. The major issue was that Holmes never guessed, and it was now Watson's responsibility not to.

"Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson announced with a soft knock. "Someone to see you at the door."

"At this hour?" Watson exclaimed.

But Sherlock was already on the staircase. Watson tried to catch him, but he was already too late. A man of some height and thin stature stood in the foyer. His hair was a light brown, combed back into a gentlemanly style. But the piercing blue eyes were what worried Watson. He noted that Sherlock was more attentive than he had been for the past few hours, and took some solace in that fact. It seemed, at least, that his would-be brother wasn't completely lost to the depths of uncertainty yet.

"Mr. Holmes," the man said, extending his hand. "My name is Campion Bond and I am a colleague of your brother's. But, I'm sure that introduction was entirely unnecessary, was it not?"

"Rather," Holmes mumbled in reply.

"Would you care for some tea, Mr. Bond? I'm sure we have much to discuss," Watson offered.

"Much indeed, Dr. Watson," Bond replied with grim features. "Lead the way."

* * *

Just inside the doorway to the dark room was the perfect spot. He had a full view of his prize without any obstructions. There was no one to hide from. He was free to stare to his heart's content, free to get as close as he wanted, free to touch, to smell, to taste, to remember, and to make new memories. After all this time, all the wrong turns and back roads he had to take to get to this point, he had what he wanted. Thomas Sawyer was lying, chained, to the iron bed at the opposite side of the room.

The boy was sleeping, chest rising and falling in a steady pace as the bruises on his neck began to form. It was an art, strangulation. It required complete focus and commitment, not to mention years of practice. And it rewarded with a thrill, the rush of actually holding someone's life between your fingers. It was a powerful drug, one that beckoned him to the boy's side once more. He could barely stay away for more than five minutes at a time, if he could help it.

Harding trailed the tips of his fingers against the iron bar at the foot of the bed as he circled around. Bits of rust caught and dragged under his nails. The sound of the scraping was barely loud enough to echo, but it made him smile all the same. He was finally in control. But it was a shame he still had business to take care of, security to make sure of. He was tired of being patient, of making sacrifices when he was so close. He brushed the blond locks of hair aside and leaned down.

Tempted. How was it possible for a boy of his age to look so young when he was asleep? Hadn't it been just yesterday that this boy's head fit so easily into both his hands?It had been bliss back then. But now he wanted more. That innocence had been an enticement, and now he knew why it was so. He had let his partner, back then, take what he was too afraid to. He hadn't understood it, the stirrings, but then again, neither had the boy.

Teased. How long had he dreamed of those dry parted lips that were just begging for movement? None of those six boys tasted the same. But he hadn't really expected them to. His needs had grown beyond that memory. The realization hit after the boys at Sawyer's Hill. It was as if Thomas had been speaking to him all along. And that night he woke as if he had been dreaming for ten years. None of the women, the girls, nor the boys mattered. All that did matter was that voice, that drawl that invaded his conscious thoughts at every juncture.

Tormented. How much longer could he stand letting his hand settle above the warmth that he so desperately wanted to feel? The fabric of the boy's pants wasn't stiff by any means. But it still kept him from knowing what he never considered ten years ago. And ten years was a long time for a boy to grow into his own. From what Harding could guess, as his hand fanned out, delving deep, measuring and cupping for some vague idea, his little Thomas had some surprises in store for him.

"Soon."

* * *

Tom jolted awake, gasping for air. It was dark. There were a couple of small windows at the top of the walls of the room he was in, barely any light. That told him he was in the corner of the building. And it was night still. The concrete walls and the coldness told him he was in some basement or lower floor. He looked down at his feet. His socks and shoes were gone. The rusty iron frame of the bed was cold against his toes. He tried to move but found that he was chained to the head of the bed. He shifted his body to get a better look, movements quick and jerky from the shock.

"Shit!" There was no way to get loose without sawing a hand off. The cuffs weren't too tight, but they also didn't allow any leeway for his wrists. Trying to pressure the bars of the bed, he realized that his legs were in the same state as his arms. The chains around his ankles, however, were longer, allowing him more room. His coat and vest were gone. The holster and his guns were missing too. And, most importantly, he was alone. The door on the other side of the room was closed. There were boxes piled in a far corner, but other than that he and the bed were the only things occupying the room.

Tom wasn't really sure if that was supposed to comfort him. But then again, what was supposed to? He walked right into it, voluntarily. There had been a plan, but everything flew out the window as soon as Harding got too close. It was just plain pathetic. He was a Secret Agent for the United States, he'd been in more life-threatening instances than he was willing to admit to himself, and this son of a bitch gets the better of him? Stupid! Angrily, he yanked on the chains around his wrist. The loud sound bounced off the walls and made his ears ring, but he didn't care. If he was going to be a prisoner here he sure as hell wasn't going to be a good one.

As soon as he thumped his head down on the mattress he heard a soft moan. Tom stilled and listened. A louder groan followed. He twisted his body and looked behind his head. A wide crack between the blocks of concrete was visible. Was there another room next to his? There had to be. Where else could that sound have come from?

"Hello," Tom whispered, somewhat hoarsely.

A few seconds went by. Then, a distinct set of coughs reached his ears. There was someone else down here with him. But who? Could it be one of the scientists? Was it who he thought and hoped it was? Either way, it was better than being alone with what-if's rolling in his head until Harding decided to show his face.

"Who's there?" he whispered louder.

"No dream…" It was barely audible, but it was definitely a man.

"Hey, who is that?"

Pause. "Is someone there?"

"Yeah?"

"Oh no." A pause, then a chuckle. "Why do I never cease to doubt my—brother?"

"You're Mycroft Holmes, aren't you?"

More coughing. "Sadly…you are correct."

Tom sighed out of relief. At least the man was alive. He wasn't so sure he could handle any more deaths at this point. "You don't sound too good—"

"I'm fine, Agent Sawyer. For the moment, at least."

"How'd you know it was me?"

"That American accent is hard to miss, wouldn't you agree?"

"I guess. What happened? Do you know where we are?

"I do not. The last thing I remember…is drafting a letter in my office, then…nothing." A grunt, and then some shuffling.

"Are you hurt?"

"Repeating myself—"

"Means you're too stubborn to admit there's somethin' wrong. You ain't doin' me any harm by tellin' the truth. I'm a Secret Service Agent, I need to know as much as I can so we…"

Mycroft started chuckling again. "So we can escape? I hardly think we can achieve that…chained down as we are. And it wasn't stubbornness—It was relevance. Knowledge of my injury is of no advantage to either of us."

"Still means somethin'." Because Tom would be damned if he let someone else take his share of the pain. Leaving the Nautilus had been done to spare anyone else that chance, even if it meant causing a little pain along the way. He just needed time to think, time to figure things out. There was more of a chance of getting one out than two, but he would have to leave room for injuries…which also meant he'd have a lot more work to do himself, and that required a LOT of restraint and patience. And he couldn't let on what he was planning either. Odds were that neither of them would get out if Mycroft knew…or at least if he were any sensible person.

"Lacerations on my right arm and shoulder," Mycroft whispered. "And a bump on the head. Does that satisfy your imagination for the meantime?"

"For now," Tom replied.

"I assume you wouldn't mind sharing your own state of being, then?"

The corners of his mouth twitched. "I'm alright. Throat's a bit sore, but I'm breathin'."

"No trouble?"

"No," he replied. "Why?"

"You're lucky to be alive, facts considering."

Tom closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. "Who else knows?"

"Sherlock and Dr. Watson. No one else other than myself."

"Must have been an easy guess…"

"With all due respect, my brother _never_ guesses. And to the objective observer, it wasn't at all difficult to put the pieces together, Agent Sawyer."

"Alright, just…no titles. Can we do that? Just first names?"

A slight pause. "Mycroft is acceptable."

"Good. Tom's fine. I just…don't like the reminder of why I'm here in the first place."

"And how did that come about?"

"It's stupid. Me actin' like a fool, which ain't nothin' new."

"Well, until Harding decides to make up his mind on what to do with either of us…I think we have all the time in the world to make do with it as we like."

Weaker coughing reached his ears through the wall. "It's a long story," Tom admitted. "And an ugly one that I'm sure you'd rather be spared the details with."

"Sparing details would do you and I a disservice. What's the point of telling a story without detail?"

"If I couldn't tell my own aunt then there's no way I could get through telling a complete stranger. And I don' mean no offense by that."

"None taken. But perhaps it's because she was your aunt that you couldn't speak of it."

"What do you mean?" Tom asked.

"I'm assuming she acted as your mother from how you spoke of her. Those we know offer comfort and understanding…but sometimes that's the furthest thing in our minds from what we want. I always find a blank piece of paper to be of more comfort than a letter writ in illegible handwriting…because the act of writing gives you power. You are in control of the pen. The words that form are chosen by you. When others assume what is to come, there's no purpose in continuing…is there?"

Tom shivered and tried to shift his weight without much noise. "…I guess not."

"I only have vague ideas of what you may or may not have been through. Some would consider that a benefit. And let me assure you now that there is not much I haven't come across in my line of work, Tom."

Tears started forming in Tom's eyes. And for once, he didn't give them a care. "Those boys…they were innocent. They had no _idea_…"

"They were innocent."

"You gotta understand—I didn't know. I didn't know a damned thing and I've always hated myself for it—"

"Wait—wait!"

Tom stopped, but the tears didn't. They fell, even when his heart froze for a different reason. "What is it?"

"Someone's coming—I can't tell who for."

Quickly, he scrubbed his face dry against the sleeve of his shirt. "Well, it better be me. Cause I ain't the patient type for this kind of shit."

"They can't know. Do you understand? If it's me—"

"Or me!"

"Not a sound."

"…not a sound," he agreed.

Tom felt like he was signing a death warrant, but it was true. If Harding knew they were talking to each other, he'd have the upper hand. There was no doubt in Tom's mind that sick bastard would use Mycroft as ready leverage if he needed to. But he'd probably be singin' that song as soon as Tom started putting up a fight. Either way both of them were screwed if Tom couldn't think on his feet better than he did hours ago in the park. He needed resolve from somewhere, and quick. But his mind blanked out on him when he heard a door creak open.

* * *

**My two weeks of hell goes something like this: My computer crashed and would have cost a fortune to fix so I decided to just get a new one. Within the span of a week I was employed by a local daycare and then unemployed because I quit my job on the grounds that I was required to work around children of all ages (infants included) while sick. PLUS, all of a sudden I develop allergies to both Tylenol and Advil, and found out that I had tonsillitis after getting over the flu… and also had a reaction to the antibiotics. **

**Not only that but I was also told to mop the children's bathroom floor with ONLY hot water. Umm…DUH people! But the most important reason of all that I quit was because I was miserable and my writing life kinda died. So, naturally I wanted out. I sincerely apologize for the delay, but, as you can now see, I was a little preoccupied with NOT DYING for the past two/three weeks. Back in the market, back on the keyboard, and back in the story. New character! Unconsciousness abounds. And the evilness continues. Just keep in mind this story will be earning it's M-rating very soon. **

**Umm…R & R if you all don't hate me by now. I would like to know what you guys think of the story thus far.**

**Rainsaber**


	17. Waking Nightmare

**Chapter Seventeen****—Waking Nightmare**

The door creaked open. The bulking form of his captor entered and slammed the door shut behind him. Mycroft schooled himself, as best he could, and refused to show any fear. He was, at least, entitled that much if he were to be anyone's prisoner. But that also didn't mean that remaining impassive was going to be easy, not when some monster of a man stalked to within inches of his face, growling and hissing something horrible both in intent and stench.

"Do you vant to know vhy you are here?"

"Aside from your entertainment," Mycroft jibbed. "I assume as your employer's bargaining chip."

Rousseau growled. "You are fortunate. But you should know zat I 'ave only been given orders not to kill you."

"How rewarding."

Mycroft barely managed to keep from crying out as a fist-full of hair was snatched and gripped painfully tight. "Do you feel the cuts in your shoulder burning yet?"

He stayed silent, not wishing to antagonize the Frenchman further, but then wondered whether it would have really helped him escape more pain that was sure to come his way soon.

"If zis Shirlock Holmes is as clever as ze rumors say, zen you may live long enough to see your brozer before you succumb to ze disease."

"What disease?"

The monster's eyes and unnaturally colored skin gleamed in the dark. He was barely able to comprehend that the monster also possessed long and sharp teeth before he spoke again. "_MY_ disease."

Then the blows came, fast and unyielding. Though he was spared the Frenchman's sharp claws, the beating that he received seemed to amplify the aches and soreness that he accumulated from earlier in the evening…or rather last night now that he was beginning to see sunlight. Thankfully, he was given one last strong kick in the side before his chair, that he was shackled to, was righted. He only let himself spit out the blood that filled his mouth after the monster left.

A string of spluttering coughs followed as he tried and failed to calm himself enough to properly draw breath. In his weakness, a withering moan escaped his dry lips. Sure he was a little pudgy around the middle, but he certainly was no punching bag, and that most certainly did not mean he suffered any less. A heat coursed through him, making Mycroft wonder whether he had already contracted some infection from the dirty cellar he'd been put in. But part of him shivered for a different reason.

"Is he right?" a soft voice said.

Mycroft turned his head, wearily, and leaned it against the wall. If he were to bend down to be better heard, he was sure the nausea would take over. How much did he want the American to be wrong? How much did he want to be home, right now, either in bed sound asleep, or dozing by the fire to prove that this was all due to the memories of some of Sherlock's most twisted cases that he had been forced to aid his brother with? Both very much so. But the fact of the matter was that he had to have faith in Sherlock. He may have been harsh on his younger brother lately, but he knew that differences would be put aside when it came to life or death. Hell, he would have torn London apart had their situations been reversed. And the difference was that if that had been the case, Mycroft would be no closer to finding his brother than Sherlock probably was right now. All of this, Mycroft hoped would be true.

"I hope not," he finally replied.

* * *

Sherlock crouched in the middle of the taller patches of grass and brushed the shrubbery aside until he grasped what had caught his eye from across the meadow. He picked up the American-made colt pistol and only had to have one glance at it to know that this was where Tom Sawyer had ended his journey last night. There were three sets of footprints aside from the sole prints of the American. One of them would have been Harding. The other two would have been two of the four scientists. Would any of them have been the one responsible for kidnapping his brother? Unlikely.

The stature of these men was mostly shorter than what he expected. The prints were too close together to compare to the slight imprints he found on the carpet of Mycroft's office. And even then, what he had found hadn't exactly been human, either. At least, not entirely. And those prints were nowhere to be found out here in the light of day. He stood and walked slowly over to a rather large tree, and leaned against it, casting his eyes down at the disturbed dirt below.

Watson limped over with his cane, but stopped a little ways from where Sherlock had been inspecting. "Isn't that the American's revolver?"

"Pistol, Watson. Yes, it is."

"Well, at least we have something to tell the League when we meet with them later today. I wasn't expecting that wire early this morning. I didn't even know they knew how to contact us."

"The likelihood of it is not very promising considering we've only had the pleasure of their acquaintance once. Their employers, however, who regularly correspond with them also correspond with us. The connection between the two makes the mystery not a mystery, in fact, at all."

Watson merely smiled. Sherlock paused in thought for only a second, noting that he hadn't seen Watson smile in quite some time. The reason?

"Surely by now, old chap, you've grown used to my means of logic?"

Watson looked taken aback. "Well, of course."

"You smiled."

"…Yes, I did."

"Your reasoning, then? I cannot call to mind any instance or memory within the past week or so for worthiness of such an expression."

Watson smiled again. "You really are a dunce if you cannot surmise the simplest mystery that's as obvious as these footprints under daylight."

Sherlock didn't say anything, waiting for the doctor to continue.

"I was worried, Holmes. I may still be, but seeing you return to your normal functions gives me hope and cause for happiness."

"You know how prone to black moods I am."

"Yes, but last night was entirely different, old boy."

Watson was right. He had almost lost himself last night because he had given into the fear that spiked from the depths of somewhere inside him. Emotions were fickle and superfluous as far as he was concerned. They distracted one from the most obvious of answers and were downright dangerous if he let himself be taken by them. Unfortunately, he had lost his control last night when he saw the amount of blood on the floor of Mycroft's office. It was only in his nightmares that he was witness to such things.

"There is a reason why emotions are to be avoided, Watson."

"Understood," was all that Watson said before he leant against the tree beside him. "This means they have to be close, Holmes. If Harding chose this spot for his rendevous then he would have to be smart enough to know he wouldn't get very far carrying an unconscious body without being stopped or spotted, even at such a late hour."

"He had two of the scientists with him, but, yes. I see your point."

"What I still don't understand," he began. "If you'll permit me, is why they would go after Mycroft. If your assertions are true, in that this Sawyer boy was one of his early victims, then why not be satisfied with his capture?"

"Insurance perhaps."

"That…what? So they can keep the American without being detected?"

"You're trying entirely too hard, Watson. Harding has what he wants. But what of the scientists? They've played along in his little game and now that he's had his fun and taken his prize it's time to collect."

"If he doesn't do away with them, first."

Sherlock turned a blank gaze over to his companion. "There are four men."

"You can't expect a man with that history to be so trusting as to let them walk away with just a little money."

"I repeat. There are _four_ men, one of whom is probably the offspring of some terrible specieal experiment."

"Alright, alright. So…insurance that they get away scot-free?"

"More than that. How do you think this man has been able to evade capture for so many years?"

Watson was silent for a moment. Sherlock waited, patiently. Then, as the birds were beginning to take flight after a strong gust of wind, Watson turned to him. "You aren't thinking…"

"Immunity is a powerful incentive, especially when you're wanted for high treason and crimes against humanity."

"But your brother doesn't have that kind of power."

Sherlock pocketed the pistol and started walking back to Baker Street, momentarily stopping for Watson to catch up. "No," he admitted. "But his associate does."

* * *

Bromley paced in the parlor, passing the windows before turning to walk by the fireplace and around the sparse furniture. He cast a nervous glance up the stairs at where Harding had vacated since coming up from the cellar not too long ago. Howell was bent over the coffee table going through old notes and making new ones.

"What the hell's got you in a mood?" he asked.

"I haven't been able to find my journal," Bromley whispered.

"Better not tell him that."

"He wouldn't care, not now that he has his boy back."

"True. We could make the serum, you know."

Bromley's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. "Are you mad? He would know! He probably knows you're thinking about it right now-Do you want to end up like Edwards? In some bloody alley bleeding to death, alone out there in the cold?"

"You have a wife, don't you?" Howell asked with a smug look. "Children too, I think."

"Don't jeopardize this for us. Once we get our money and insurance then you can think about being a good friend. Once we're away from Harding."

"He doesn't deserve to be like that for the rest of his life. Rousseau has a family just like you. Why do you think he hasn't taken off Harding's head yet?"

Bromley stared out the window, hiding a glare that erupted from thinking of his pregnant wife. Briefly, he wondered if she had given birth yet. But that was all he spared his thoughts on. "For the same reasons I haven't tried. It's all the more reason to get the deal done with as soon as possible," Bromley hissed. "Now, put those away, before Harding decides to have a little bit of fun and peek in on you when he comes down."

Howell gathered up his notes and folded them under his arm before ascending the stairs to his room. Bromley stared at his back until he was gone. Nerves ate at him from the inside out. He needed to find his own notes soon. If he was caught without them…how to find them? How does anyone find anything they've lost? They retrace their steps.

* * *

Mina cast a last glance upon the sleeping form of Allan Quatermain before leaving the infirmary. There was no doubt in her mind that Henry would be angry that she left, but the closeness of that room had never sat well with her. It made her feel as if she was in a cage.

She wandered the halls, trying to ignore the soreness in her body. She felt tired all the time now. Weak and useless. As if every step or breath was an ungodly effort. The change all those years ago hadn't been this painful, in fact, it was invigorating. From then on she had no cares about her humanity, only about staying true to herself and who she was before the change. Now, all that was changing again. Did she want it?

"The doctor," Nemo said, from behind her. "Would be quite agitated to find you gone and alone."

The captain had given her a good start, but from previous years of experience as a vampire, she didn't jump like she would have when she was first human.

"Come," he continued. "The fire may do your body some good."

She followed without a word and sat down with him by the fire. The heat brushed up against her in comforting waves. Warmth was something she never needed. It helped relax some of the more tense muscles in her. So she was immediately thankful, and expressed as much, quietly. Then they sat together in silence for some time. Tea was brought, but neither moved to touch it. Her eyes had closed a long time ago.

She was imagining her home, when Jonathan was still alive, when Lucy used to come and visit her. They seemed like such a long time ago. And they were something that she would never gain back, even if she was being given a second chance at life.

"Lines have begun to appear at the corner of my eyes," she said, softly. "I am not so vain an individual anymore, but the idea that my death can now come at anytime, without any warning, terrifies me."

Nemo leaned forward in his seat. "Not only for yourself I suspect."

No, not at all. "I had a son once. He was spared from the vampirism that took hold of me. To protect him…I entrusted his care to the one man who may have saved me if it weren't for my own foolishness. Now I wonder if it may be so much of a challenge to have, that life I dreamed of so often, back."

"I too dream," Nemo whispered. "Of a time when I may return home and see my sons and daughters running to meet me. But that dream will forever remain a dream, because I know I will not see them until I expire to the afterlife."

"Would you think me a horrible woman if I chose to remain here, as I once was, if that were even possible?"

Mina waited as the captain considered his answer. She wanted him to say, yes. To prove to her that all those years she spent taking lives to satisfy her own existence were wrong and immoral, just a strange path that she had fallen down by accident. But he didn't.

"Would it matter?" he asked.

Somewhere, deep inside of her, a voice said 'Of course not.' And from that point on she had her answer, as horrible as she was. Who was she to think she could ever have a normal life after all that she had done, after all that she had given up? Things had changed for her over the years, and she adapted. If there was a chance that she could regain the normalcy of her vampiric self, or if she even truly wanted it, she needed to retire to her room and to her chemical supplies soon. As the fire began to die, she still had yet to move from her chair and the company of the captain.

* * *

Sawyer wrapped his hands around the chains again and pulled with all his might to try and bend the bars that it was wrapped around. He grunted in frustration when neither yielded and he was forced, yet again, to give up. His arms shook under the strain and screamed at him to stop and rest, but he wanted out, and now. Being chained to a bed, waiting for that man to come for him was starting to fray what was left of his nerves. And after the beating that he had just listened to, he needed to think fast to get them both out of here…if he was even that lucky.

"Look to the wall…"

"What?" Sawyer hissed.

"Look to the wall," Mycroft moaned again. "The weakest point in pipes usually resides in the connection with the wall. If they're even that old. This foundation looks somewhat new…"

Tom bit his lip for a moment before responding. "It's not a pipe. They're…iron bars…part of a…of a bed."

Neither said anything for a while. Tom laid his head down on the thin mattress and stared up at the ceiling. He refused to resign himself to this fate, because if he did he might lose himself, and if he did that he would be abandoning a friend. All in all, he couldn't afford to be selfish this time.

"You're…not afraid-are you?"

Tom took a breath and gritted his teeth together in determination, but his voice shook as soon as he opened his mouth. "Tryin' not to be."

"We'll be alright…We'll make it-make it…alright-"

Tom's head shot up when it heard it. Footsteps. "Shit," he hissed. There was no chance they were coming for Mycroft a second time. It was his turn, now.

"Give-mm-'ell," was the last slurred reply Tom heard.

His door was shoved open and slammed shut. But Tom didn't look at who it was. A lock clicked, made his breath hitch. Footsteps drew close to his bed. Harding loomed into his line of sight, staring down at Tom with obvious lust. Tom glared back as if he could burn the bastard's skin with his own eyes. He sat down next to Tom, and Tom tried to slide away but was stopped when Harding gripped his side and pulled him back.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Tom closed his eyes, imagining that this was just a dream like all his nightmares back on the Nautilus. Then he flinched when he felt the man's hand on his face. Fingers trailed down and tried to interject themselves between his lips, but he screwed them shut tight. Harding just laughed and leaned in to whisper in his ear.

"Play nice, Thomas. I may reconsider killing your friend if you do."

His mouth popped open out of surprise as he gasped for air. Immediately, the fingers darted in, moving every which way and lingering on the underside of his tongue. How much did he want to bite that appendage off, to hear him scream for once? But if he did, this early in the game, Tom knew he'd get frustrated and lash out at Mycroft to make him comply. He needed to buy the elder Holmes as much time as possible. He knew he wouldn't be able to hold out for long, but every second mattered.

As quickly as they came, the fingers retreated. He felt hot breath on his face and instantly closed his mouth. "Remember us?" he whispered. "Once upon a time?" He laid his lips down on Tom's and it was all he had in him to not jerk away. "But that's a stupid question, isn't it? Even without words I can tell that you remember us." The lips descended again, this time with the tip of his tongue trying to create an opening. "Open your mouth." Tom shrunk back and turned his head away, breaking the contact.

But that didn't deter Harding. Instead, his lips latched onto Tom's neck and he sucked until it began to hurt. He could practically feel the blood vessels bursting himself. Less important, now, was the fact that there would be a mark left later. But he endured it until Harding was done.

"So young," he mused. "And probably not broken in, I'd wager."

Tom opened his eyes then, glaring daggers at the man leaning over him. "Fuck you," were the first and, most likely, only words that he'd say until Harding left. He may have ruined Tom's life, but that didn't mean he had to sit and take any more abuse if he could help it. He eyes may have betrayed him when Harding pulled out a knife but he lay perfectly still when it was lowered to his throat, taunting the man to try and get a reaction out of him.

"Oh, don't you dare blame me, boy. I told you in Missouri that bad things would come from running away, didn't I?" Harding pressed the blade further against his vulnerable skin when he said nothing. "Didn't I?" he screamed. "This is your fault. You left me no other choice…Finn was in the way when I finally found you in London."

That got something out of him. Shock. Disbelief. And a slow-building anger. Could it have been possible? That would have to mean that he-

"Oh yes," Harding purred. "The Fantom and the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen had to be enough to coax the young adventure-seeking Thomas Sawyer out of hiding. And look what happened. The vagabond finds another home to ruin after leaving his loyal dog for dead!"

The building was burning down. He would have been burned alive too if he hadn't done it. He wanted to save Huck…Tears burned his eyes. Harding looked smug, like he had gotten what he wanted. When he was done talking, and the knife was far enough away, Tom spit into the man's face. "One day," he rasped. "You're gonna answer for all that you done. An on that day you're gonna be kneeling and begging like the dog you are under the barrel of my gun. One day, I. Will. Kill. You. You son of a bitch."

Harding shook with anger and stabbed the knife into the mattress next to Tom's head. Then there was one hand grasping his face and another fisted in his shirt. That one act of defiance may have cost him, but it certainly made Tom feel better, that he could get a reaction out of the bastard as well.

"You will regret this. But I certainly won't!"

* * *

**The next few months are going to be VERY busy for me. What with trying to get into grad school and everything. But I will try very hard to keep updating this story throughout. Obviously I've been having a little bit of trouble lately and updates have gone back to every 2/3 weeks or so. Since it's so close to the end of the story, however, I will try to push through and get it done before the new year. And seeing as how we only have about…well, maybe five chapters or so left, that should be plausible. There will be 2 posted next time.**

**Helloooooooooo out there? Ooo, there's an echo…:/ Oh well. Continue reading or not, but this thing is getting done soon. Both for my sanity and for yours I'm sure :)**

**Reviews, as always, brighten up my day!**

**-Rainsaber**


	18. Inferno

*******Warning****: The following is, by far, the most graphic chapter in the story. Please do not feel obligated to read it if you think it may bother you. Any plot development involved here will be described, and easily understood, in the next chapter or two, sans the content of this one.***

**Chapter Eighteen—Inferno**

The combination of sensation and sound made the room around them spin. For a few blissful moments there was no iron-framed bed that Tom was chained to. There were no walls that seemed to suck every particle of light from the room. And there was no one bearing his weight down on top of him. He could hear and feel absolutely nothing. But he saw. He saw moving shadows that pulled him from the happy memories he tried to reach, to block the present moment out. Faces of people he knew were being ripped away because of his inability to forget. One, out of all of them, he tried his hardest to hold onto. But Allan, too, was gone from his sight.

The cold air was like a slap in the face. Before he could react, his pants and undergarments were yanked down to his ankles and his shirt was scrunched up as far as it would go. It was a reflex to squirm, to pull away, even just a little. But the chains holding him to the bed were just as unforgiving. Briefly he was given a reprieve, when Harding sat up and began freeing himself from his own clothes. And it was in that moment, when his body forced itself to take a breath that he felt sick enough to vomit. He was about to be raped, again, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. There was no one within shouting distance that would come to his aid.

Although there was no third party to watch this humiliation, it somehow felt worse. He was in the darkness, just as before. He was held down, at someone else's mercy. And he was scared enough to piss himself, even though he'd never let on that he was. What did he plan on doing to him? It had only been painful with the other man when Harding left him all those years ago. Tom took a deep breath to stave off the dizziness that was coming in waves. He was not that small boy anymore. He was older. He was wiser. And, unfortunately, he knew what to expect.

He grit his teeth together in anticipation and clenched his eyes shut as hands gripped his skin and pulled him into a better position. Then they explored, pulled, scratched, and squeezed. He could feel the bruises and angry red marks forming, marks that he knew would never go away, not this time. And through it all, Harding's face never left his. He had to listen to the horrible sounds the man was making. The grunts and groans that he made when he was successful in getting a moan or whimper of discomfort from Tom were particularly painful.

"You're just the same as I remember," Harding whispered. "So very vocal."

The lips were on his again. Struggling wasn't a choice, but more of an instinct. The man growled in response and slapped him hard across the face. Then the hand that had just abused Tom's face held it down as Harding hissed into his ear.

"You don't know how lucky you are, Thomas!"

Then the other hand grabbed his throat and began to squeeze his airway shut. Panic set in, almost immediately. Tom choked and writhed under the man's weight, suddenly more frightened of Harding's anger than his lust. He didn't want to die alone in a cell with this man who had ruined his life.

"But do you know why I won't? Do you know why you don't deserve to suffer their fates? Those boys, those _women_? You were different. So very very different. There had been others before you but no one ever had that fire that I saw in your eyes."

The hand released him, and Tom coughed for air, wincing at every intake. He looked up at the man above him with caution and frustration. Why couldn't he just make up his mind? Did Harding want him dead or did he want him to live? But his thoughts froze in place when he saw Harding smile.

"There it is. Determination. Pure stubborn will. You fought where everyone else quailed under me. You made me feel things I'd forgotten I was capable of, Thomas. For years I'd looked for you, watched you from afar, never able to get that feeling back. But now…"

A thumb traced over his lips as the rest of the hand cupped the side of his face.

"Now that I have you…I don't have to dream anymore."

Tom nearly cringed at the darkness that overtook Harding's eyes as he glared down at him, but he restrained himself. He had to make it through this alive. That was what Allan would have been telling him. But how was he supposed to lie here and just take it? Why had he ever done something so stupid? Why did he leave the League? Why hadn't he thought to lay a trap for the bastard that had so openly laid one for him? What was he supposed to do now? The only company he had were the memories and voices he could remember in his head. And none of them were strong enough to keep him away from what was happening to him right now.

He cried out through his teeth when he felt hands between his legs and heard the ripping of his pants. For years, fear had plagued his footsteps, influenced his actions, and decided what relationships, if any at all, he had with those he met. He didn't retain many of his childhood friendships. Any interest he ever had in girls was always shadowed by what he'd experienced before he even knew what it meant. It made him angry to look back on his life, to admit that he'd allowed someone to take control of him.

Not anymore. It had to stop here if it was going to stop at all. But that meant letting it happen again.

…

He could do it.

…

It was only physical pain.

…

He could take it.

Tom flinched as the cold fingers dipped into places he didn't know existed. Harding was whispering things, panting in his ear. There was hot breath on the side of his face. All so very uncomfortable.

'_You can do this, Sawyer-You can do this-You can do this-'_

He gasped at the sudden intrusion, unable to keep himself from pulling on the manacles at his wrist. His eyelids clenched together, and when that didn't help the sharp invasive feeling go away he tilted his head back and tried to focus on the stinging numbness that started to settle in to his white shaking hands. It was only a finger-he gasped again-now two. Moving-stretching-too much…sudden sharp pain that made him see white sparks beneath his closed eyes, and a faint odor of blood.

"No," he choked out. "No, I can't! Stop, stop-STOP!"

"Keep your eyes open," Harding whispered. "If you close them, I'll kill your friend after I finish with you. You know I will!"

_He could hear the crickets by the river, the sloshing of small waves by the shore on that windy night, and the groans of a man driving him into the dirt. There was no air. Something was stuck in his throat and he was afraid he was going to choke to death. He vomited on instinct, and was punished for it._

Tom opened his eyes, obediently, but only to get away from that night, from the vision of weeds and soil that had been forever burned into his memory. Replaced by that was something new, but equally as frightening. Harding. Older. Thinner. Gaunt. Pale. Sweaty-

"I was foolish to let Joseph have you-"

"Stop-please, stop-"

"But you were just as foolish, leaving me-Do you understand?"

"You don't have to do this-"

"You need to be _punished,_ Thomas-that's the only way you'll _learn_-"

"I don't want this, please!"

Teeth bit down on Tom's collarbone, hard. He gasped and squirmed, trying to find a way out. But Harding was beyond reasoning. The fingers inside of him were pulled out, but there was no comfort, no care in it, only primal lust that was fueled by years of pent up longing and frustration. It gave him no room to think, no time to grasp for a hold on something real. And any semblance of fight that he had left was snuffed out, with no smoke left in its wake to signify that the small flame had once existed, when Richard Harding buried himself into Tom in one swift movement.

Tom couldn't hold in the scream that broke free from somewhere deep inside him, nor the tears that spilled free from his eyes. It felt as if he was being torn apart from the inside out. And vaguely, he knew that it was true when he felt something warm flowing between his legs. All he knew was feeling. He was beyond hearing the grunts and moans of pleasure from the man on top of him as he moved back and forth at a grueling pace. He was beyond seeing their shadows fight against the walls and ceiling, though he knew he had to keep his eyes open, because, even now, he would not betray the only friend he would ever be left with after this ordeal. All Tom could bring himself to do was answer his body's pleas for peace, for a way out from the excruciating pain of being violated in more ways than one.

It seemed to go on forever. So long that he could no longer scream at the discomfort. All he could do was make small noises in protest as he waited, staring up at the man as he came close to finishing. And, when Harding did, moments later, Tom came to a horrible realization, despite the sluggish processing his thinking had been reduced to. He was alone…and he always would be, from this moment forward. It wasn't the sound of his rapist coming into him that made Tom cry. It was the realization that he had done all of this to himself and that he had no more chances to do what was right for all of those who had been victimized before and after him, and what was right for himself.

Tom cried for the overwhelming feeling of failure that hit him, as the rigid body above gave out. He closed his eyes as Richard Harding lay on top of him, gasping for air. The stabbing pain had stopped. It was dulling to a persistent throbbing instead. A hand snaked its way up to his throat. Tom couldn't help the flinch as he quieted down. Was this how it was all going to end? Was that all Harding had ever wanted? One chance more before getting rid of him like he were trash? Maybe that's all he was good for now…because that's all he was in this man's eyes. He was an object, something to be used…and now, something to be disposed of. Tom didn't like it, but kept his eyes closed and tried to accept the fact that he was expendable…hell, his government thought so. There were always more agents, always someone else to take the vacated seat.

But the hand caressed his throat, drew lazy circles. Tom was shaking, flinching like a wounded animal, and yet afraid to move to try and find a position that wouldn't cause shooting pain up his back and down his legs. He became aware of a slickness on his wrists and ankles. Blood or sweat…maybe both. He felt dirty all over. Sticky. Smelly. Filthy in a way that he could never get clean.

"That was very stupid of you," a voice whispered next to his ear.

Tom shuddered and tried to keep himself still, because maybe if he did, this man would go away, would leave him alone to cry in peace. But Harding stayed, for a long time, lying next to him, touching him. And Tom had no choice but to lie there, waiting for a moment of peace or for it to happen again. He wasn't so sure he could stand it a second time, so soon after the first. But as it turned out, it wasn't the act itself that tormented his thoughts and made him too scared to move. It was the not knowing whether it was going to happen again because it was endless. He was stuck in an endless purgatory of fear and pain, even after Harding had left because Tom never heard him go.

* * *

**I hate this chapter and wish I could delete it. For a long time I was wondering if I could get away with anything less or just skimming over it, but then I realized that would have been selfish and it would have done more disservice than justice to my story. And, of course, to the people who have been through this kind of thing. Ugh…I can't wait for this guy to get his comeuppance. Next chapter to shortly follow.**

**-Rainsaber**


	19. Embers in the Dark

**Chapter Nineteen****—Embers in the Dark**

"Harry?"

His son stared back at him, sad. He was younger, not much older than the seven year old daguerreotype his mother had taken of him before her passing. The boy had taken to the African heat well, and within a week, the reddish tint to his cheeks faded, only brought out under extreme exertion or stress. The father in Allan ached to reach out to his son, to embrace his son's small frame and ask what was wrong, why he sat by his side watching the sunset with tears in his eyes. But the boy had yet to actually cry over his mothers death.

Harry was much like Allan was when he was younger, preferring the comfort of silence to loud wails of grief. Perhaps that was why the boy warmed to him so quickly once they made their permanent move. There was too much noise in London, too much commotion. Out here, there was some kind of natural peace away from the smog and pollution of politics and government. Instead, things were much simpler, smaller and easier, and infinitely more dangerous. Their first hunting lessons were a treasure to Allan's memory already, specifically how his heart swelled when his son turned to him with a smile on his face after taking his first shot.

It had been a good turn of things after so much heartache. And now, the present moment that held he and his son in such agony seemed to take those good memories by the throat. He owed a favor to a dear friend; find his only child, his son, who had been taken from him as payment for a debt that he had unknowingly inherited from his deceased father. Against his better judgment, he allowed Harry to come along. And despite his precautions, of stationing the boy far away with a rifle to cover his father's movements, after he infiltrated the small camp and took care of the guards, he found his own son at the door of the hut where his friend's son lay.

"Why did no one help that boy, father? Didn't they know how wrong it was?"

Allan sighed. "I suspect they did, but I doubt that they cared. There's not much anyone can do to help those taken to repay a debt. It's the way things used to be in these lands, and some still hold to those old laws."

"Laws…to hurt people?"

"To own them."

"He was a slave?"

He could still see the emaciated form of his friend's son before his eyes. He had long since turned his own son away from the sight and into his own shirt, denying to himself that Harry had seen too much. His shirt was no longer damp with sweat, but with tears. And the soft sound of Harry's crying was what tore his eyes away from the naked corpse, blood still staining the ground between his legs.

"Yes," Allan whispered.

"I would have run away. That's why they did that to him, didn't they? Because he tried to run."

He didn't have the heart to tell his friend when he brought the body back. To a boy he didn't know, who had suffered so much so far away from anyone who loved him, it was the least he could do, to keep his dignity intact. And the deaths of those men ensured that it would stay that way.

"You won't let anyone take me away, will you, father?"

Allan's eyes snapped to the shaking form of his son. A hand ensnared the small chin and coaxed it upwards. "On my life, never."

"You promise?"

"I swear it, Harry. But you must promise, _never_ to leave my side. I lead, you follow. Understood?"

Harry nodded, some tears finally breaking free. But his son quickly found himself in the comfort of his father. The sun was nearly gone, and twilight was beginning to reign over them. Allan took a deep breath, listening to the night around them. And he froze when he heard someone scream in the distance. He thought he imagined it until he heard it again. It was a young man…calling for someone.

"Do you hear him," Harry asked.

Allan felt as if he should remember something very important, as if this moment no longer mattered and all that did was the person calling to him. He looked down at his son, who a moment ago was seated in his lap, head rested under his chin. But when he looked down his son, a man much older, rose from his knees.

_"Do you hear him," Harry repeated._

The voice screamed again, and this time, Allan heard his name. This bodiless young man was screaming for him. Allan rose to his feet, suddenly feeling age in his limbs, weight throughout his entire body, though he stoically tried to hide it. He looked through the darkness, though the trees, but saw nothing.

"_You are tied to this young man," the shaman said, in his head. _

"_ALLAN!"_

He gasped for air, for the first time in ages. It was painfully sweet as his vision tunneled back to him. The aches dulled in time, made the world around him sharp and focused. It reminded him of a purpose, of why he was breathing again.

"_Help me…"_

"_And he to you," the shaman continued. "You give each other something. Something special. It's why you breathe, why Africa needs you to breathe!"_

He looked up. Harry was walking away from him, out into the darkness in the trees. Why? The boy knew better than to walk alone!

"Harry!" he called.

His son stopped and turned, holding a hand to stop his father's movement forward. The voice called again, growing fainter, more desperate.

"_You made that promise to me when I was a little boy," Harry said. "I was thankful for it, for having someone to protect me. But Tom never did."_

"Tom," Allan whispered to himself.

There had been an explosion. He had been dragged down stairs. A bomb. He and Tom had lived. But where was Tom now? Why was he hearing the American calling out to him? Something was wrong. His son…his son! Allan looked up to see Harry fading from his sight.

_"Save him. He's the only way you can help me now."_

And when Quatermain woke, there was only one name that passed through his lips as he struggled to regain consciousness and a way back to the one person who mattered more to him than anyone else in the latter half of his life.

* * *

This was the fourth time he had woken up retching blood. And after every episode he would immediately succumb to the exhaustion, only to wake a short time later and repeat the process again. The mess would soon seep through the soles of his shoes, but that was the least of his worries. He leant his head back against the wall and tried to even out his breathing, to hold the rest of the sickness in. But it was growing increasingly harder to do with the violent shivering and convulsing that he had no choice but to give into. Bouts of extreme heat and severe chills told him this was no normal illness.

The door to his cell was wrenched open and slammed shut soon after. Footsteps echoed in his ears but they seemed so far away. A face swam above him and all he could do in retaliation was speak.

"What in hell did you do to me?" Mycroft groaned.

"I," Harding asked. "I did nothing. For this, you have the Frenchman to blame."

The fever returned, and as it did his wounds began to sting.

"When he endured this process he screamed. But he had been given a concentrated dose of the venom. For you it will be slower, drawn out over time if you don't succumb to the changes before it is done."

"Why?"

"You have power, Mr. Holmes. And so does your colleague. Power that can make this all go away for you, make you forget that you've failed for a short time. You've underestimated me, badly. I would have expected it from someone like Bond, but not from you. You're brother to one of the most intelligent men in history, and yet you allow yourself, day after day, to be pulled along with such low intellect. It's all so menial, so insignificant. Makes me wonder if you really have any power at all."

"What-do-you want?"

Harding invaded his personal space, but Mycroft couldn't waste the little energy he had left on struggling.

"I want you to die," Harding hissed. "Knowing that you accomplished nothing, that you were a pointless waste of space on this earth next to people like me…and your brother."

"My-brother…?"

"There was one thing Moriarty could never do. He was distracted by the thrill of the game, of having an equal in intellect. A playmate. He could never best Sherlock Holmes because he was afraid of what he might create should he actually succeed in his deepest desires. He wanted an equal, someone by his side. And now that he's dead, I think there's room in the world for someone better."

"No…"

"The Napoleon of crime may have been an illusory imbecile when it came to his personal matters, but he more than delivered when I challenged him to. He gave me the long lost treasure I'd been seeking for years. And _such_ a gift deserves to be rewarded, even in death, don't you think?"

"You…will…fail. Save yourself…the trouble. Leave him…out-of-this!"

A quick, but powerful blow was dealt to his midsection and Mycroft doubled over instantly, holding back the moans of twisting and cramping muscles that had already been abused.

"If only HE were smart enough to do that," Harding shouted. "But everyone has their sour spot. A weakness. That's what makes us all human, isn't it? Everyone has to have a weakness. Even Sherlock Holmes. And I do, so much, like to remind people that they have one. Your death will be icing to the cake. And I will watch from afar when his first taste for crime hits the papers…and I will smile, and I will laugh, and know in my old years that I did something extraordinary!"

Harding was gone, through the door, not a few seconds later. Mycroft was left, again, in a cold dark room, sitting in his own filth. But this time he was left with more than physical injuries. Dull worry had developed into full blown fear. Though Sherlock had his doctor by his side, as he always did, nothing like this had ever happened before. And Mycroft would have been a fool to believe that their constant bickering was proof that his possible death wouldn't affect his younger brother so drastically. There was truth to what Harding had just said, and even if Mycroft didn't want to believe it, he was bound to, at the very least, fight his way to that moment when Sherlock would come bursting through that door. He owed his brother that much.

* * *

As the deck was lowered Nemo caught sight of three approaching men in the darkness. Their coat collars were upturned against the cold wind. The captain walked to the edge to greet them, pausing briefly to note the small crystals of snow that had begun to fall. A few passed by his face on their descent, and when he looked up a second later it was as if they hadn't existed at all. Few fell, but the rest had yet to come.

"Captain," an English gentleman prompted.

"Mr. Bond," Nemo greeted, extending his hand. "Welcome aboard the Nautilus. I trust this meeting shall not last long?"

"Yes," Bond mused, eyes devouring every inch of the Nautilus he could gather. "If your meaning is that we have a means of proceeding in this case already planned, then you may be partially assured."

"Excellent. Gentlemen?"

The younger Holmes and Doctor Watson followed Bond inside as the deck was pulled back up and the massive sub began its descent. Nemo led them down hallways, up staircases, past workers, silent as his companions were. Once they had reached the meeting and dining room, however, having passed the library and a small personal garden, he was rather surprised at the slight but genuine awe he heard, before beginning a conversation with Campion Bond.

"Truly astounding!" the doctor whispered.

"Quite," Holmes replied.

It still graced him with a faint smile every now and then to see the rewards of his lifelong labors. A trivial matter, perhaps. But knowing that he was capable of being of some worth, of having done something extraordinary, made all his toils and troubles seem inconsequential.

"How is Quatermain?" Bond asked.

"I was given word that he awoke this morning," Nemo said.

"And the prognosis?"

"Doctor Jekyll believes he will recover, in time."

"But not fast enough for us?"

"That, I cannot say. Have you discovered the whereabouts of this villain?"

"We have not. But we will. I'll be frank with you, Captain. The last thing, at the moment, that I am in need of is an international incident over the potential murder of a young American. Despite your success with Moriarty, international tensions are still high and it is up to me to ensure that they don't rise any higher. Do you understand?"

Sharp blue eyes stared, pointedly, at Nemo. He returned the gaze as cool as he could manage, shoving down the feeling of being scrutinized and, dare he imply, reprimanded. What was more important to him, than this man's rudeness was the safe return of Agent Sawyer.

"I _understand_, Mr. Bond."

"It was incredibly foolish of that _American_ to do what he did. Have you been able to surmise why he acted so rashly? You and your League are, of course, leading experts in the boy's brazen ways."

"Hell-o, hell-o, who in-a _hell _is this bloke?"

Bond looked around the room in confusion for a second, before schooling his features and gesturing for the captain to make the introduction that was not forthcoming.

"Mr. Skinner, this is Campion Bond, Mr. Holmes' associate-"

"Didn' know 'e came wiv a stick up his arse."

Bond frowned. "Have I offended you in some way, Mr. Skinner?"

"Word of advice for ya, Bondsey. Don' talk abou' the kid like he ain't righ' in the head. You wan' us to play bawl? Best bring the righ' cards wiv ya."

"Need I remind you," Bond replied. "That I hold your clemency in my hands?"

"And we got you, on a ship, under a river, where no one can hear you cawl for dear ol' mummy."

"You think you can outsmart me with your invisibility?"

"Don' need to. Got Hyde and a vampire blockin'a way out. "

Bond spun around, and, indeed, Mina and Jekyll stood by the door, surveying the scene, neither looking very amiable or welcoming.

"What is this?-" Bond started, outraged.

"Our respect is yours," Sherlock interjected. "You needn't worry about that, gentlemen, and lady. However, we are wasting time. If we are to continue this inane confrontation your agent and my brother will sooner find themselves dead than safely returned to us."

A brief silence followed after that and changed the atmosphere in the room. Watson took a seat at the table for the benefit of his leg. The rest followed suit after Nemo made the invitation, sweeping into his own seat.

"Do continue, Mr. Holmes," Bond said, sulking a little.

"If we do not act quickly a valuable opportunity will slip past us once more."

"What opportunity?" Mina asked.

"Tonight in, approximately, one hour in Covent Garden. One of your men will be returning from Plain Jane's. He's made it into more of a habit recently, suggesting there is internal conflict either with the fellow scientists or with Harding himself. The best way we can gather which of these houses both Mycroft and Agent Sawyer are being held in-"

"Wait a minute," Watson interjected. "Why would they be holding them in Covent Gardens? We've already established that Agent Sawyer was abducted from Richmond Park. Why go so far out of the way?"

"How could Tom even manage a journey that far," Jekyll asked. "It would have taken him all night."

"Carriage or boat, obviously," Holmes said, with a touch of annoyance. "Neither of which matter in comparison to how they transported him from Richmond park to Covent Garden."

"But _why _Covent Garden?" Watson asked.

"Their residencies, of the scientists that we've been surveying until now," Mina voiced.

"_Rather _unsuccessfully," Bond groused.

"ANYway," Sherlock interrupted, pausing only to reach into his pocket for an old marked up map with circles of addresses along the Thames. "This is their net of security, how they've been operating right under your nose, Mr. Bond."

Along the river were several points of address circled and noted. From memory, Nemo recognized three of them. "These are the warehouses in Harding's name?" the captain asked.

"Correct," Sherlock answered.

"All of them?" Mina asked. "We were only aware of three."

"Under Richard Harding's name, yes."

"Not too far from each over," Skinner mused. "Seems a bit familiar vough…"

"Yes," Holmes contemplated. "Quite familiar, but only to certain facets of society. To those who know where to look for things that are hard to find."

Nemo looked up at the tone of voice that Mr. Holmes had openly portrayed. The man was staring at Mr. Bond who stared back, near to the point of squirming in his seat. Nemo say back in his seat and decided to wait and watch.

"Though I hold no hope for your intellect, Mr. Bond, I must say that I was rather surprised that my brother never caught onto your little operation…perhaps I should rephrase myself-the black market isn't exactly in any position to be described as 'little,' now is it?"

Bond looked at no one else, sweat forming on his brow, but his features remained impassive. "What, exactly, are you implying?"

"Holmes," Watson whispered in question.

"You allowed them safe passage here, furnished them with warehouses that had been confiscated by the government in a police investigation years ago to ensure secrecy, and turned a blind eye to their existence…all because you didn't want to lose your share of the earnings, I believe."

"Earnings?" Mina questioned, almost too soft to hear.

"Of us," Jekyll hissed, Hyde's anger visibly growing beneath the surface.

Bond laughed, shifting and putting up a front. "And you deduced _this imaginary scheme_, how? I've heard things about you, Mr. Holmes. _Great_ things. Age, it seems hasn't been that _kind_ to your faculties."

"From experience, my brother keeps his office locked. He had a special kind of german lock put into his door, one that's taken me months to pick. Upon completion the locksmith crafted him only two keys of a design that is near impossible to duplicate. One, I know, he keeps in the left breast pocket of his coat, and the other is kept by the only person he allows entrance to his office, you."

"You think I unlocked his office?"

"No. I am certain you did because there was no damage done to the door or the lock, suggesting it had been opened with a key. Whoever entered that room had done so without the aid of my brother who sat at his desk at the time the door had been opened. The scuff marks against the floor, where his chair had been, says that he had been surprised by his visitor and not welcoming. Two sets of footprints upon the newly installed carpet in the hall further implicate you and my brother's assailant. Your special taste for Italian leather boots, and the makings of such is hard to miss. You make far more than you're willing to admit to your countless lovers, but they never ask because you are careful enough in that aspect of your life to remain constant in appearance and upkeep. One, however, must have said something recently because you've changed colognes for a better impression, one that lingers after much time has passed. I don't suppose you've done this with the intention in mind to marry her but more to drive her mad with want. Your need for others to need you was your own undoing."

Bond said nothing. And neither did anyone else. The man looked furious but his silence was profound. Sherlock, however, was far from done. He leaned forward over the desk as he continued.

"When you came to me that night in Baker Street you only confirmed my suspicions. You handed me a list of addresses to warehouses that I personally infiltrated for Inspector Lestrade years ago in a string of murders that he could never solve. At the time I suspected someone with ties to the black market, but never to the man whose criminal record you personally handed to us. How you think I would have forgotten such a case is entirely beyond my realm of comprehension. Frankly I can only account this to your lack of intelligence."

"The economy," Bond whispered. "Was on the _brink_ of a recession-"

"And in return for his patronage you offered him immunity."

"_Until_ he started killing those women-"

"But it wasn't until the boys that you cut ties with him. Tell me, because I would very much like to know," Sherlock said, voice growing lower with menace. "Which boy's murder was the deciding factor? Surely it wasn't the orphans running through the streets that bothered you. Which family came to you first? Was it the Cole family, or the Kings?"

By this point Campion Bond had foregone all modes of deception and was gripping the arm of his seat tightly to keep himself seated. Rage was dawning on his face and his voice was tight when he spoke. Discreetly, Nemo caught the gaze of one of his officers and winked.

"It was a mistake," Bond hissed. "Harboring a fugitive-"

"No, not at all," Holmes pressed. "It wasn't a mistake until you realized he had gone beyond your realm of control! You used him to solve economic problems you couldn't solve for the crown to keep your job. You used the League to correct said problem. You used my brother as a bargaining chip to this villain, underestimating the fact that Harding is, in actuality, ignorant of exactly how much power _you _truly hold. And you have _attempted_ to use me in your scheme to recover your only ally and whatever shred of personal decency that has, as of yet, been spared!"

Nemo assumed from his first meeting of Mr. Holmes that he was a far more reserved man than himself. And until this point, Nemo thought, he had been right. But now, the cold and indifferent façade has been replaced by a quiet anger that was far more frightening than the open rage that Mr. Bond was displaying.

"You don't _understand_," Bond exclaimed. "It brought in money. What I've done has saved the monarchy!"

"Through US," Mina screeched. "Did you know it was us that he was selling, what Moriarty tried and failed to do?"

"Do you have _any_ idea what you've done," Jekyll exclaimed. "What you've set loose upon the world?"

"I bet 'e does, but 'e don' give a damn til it comes knockin' on 'is soddin' fron' door."

"I didn't know he would kidnap Mycroft-"

"Did you know of his desires toward Agent Sawyer," Nemo asked, unable to disguise the disgust he felt.

Bond turned to him and stared, guilt slowly becoming clearer with each passing second. "I have made some miscalculations…"

In a flash, Bond has been thrown against the wall, hands fisted in his coat and holding him firmly in place.

"Henry," Mina exclaimed.

No one, however, had left their seat besides her. Henry Jekyll, influenced by Edward Hyde, held Campion Bond as if he were Richard Harding himself.

"Your miscalculations have caused far greater damage than you realize," Jekyll shouted. "You have just given a victim back to his assailant, to the one person he has feared more than anyone else in his entire life!"

"And am I the only one to blame in that?" Bond retorted.

That earned Bond a cuff across the face, so forceful that he fell to the floor with Jekyll towering above him. What stopped the attack from pursuing further, however, was Mina. She crossed the room with speed and latched onto Henry's arm, calling his name.

"Henry," she whispered, forcing the man to look into her eyes. "Stop." The anger did not leave. And Nemo feared that he would soon lash out against her instead, but she lowered her voice and changed tactics. "Edward," she said, with finality.

And, slowly, after that, Jekyll's body relaxed. No one was left seated but the doctor friend of Mr. Holmes, who had only remained so because of the detective's hands on his shoulders. Campion Bond wiped the blood away from his mouth and moved to stand up, but an invisible force shoved him back down to the ground.

"I'd stay right where you belong iv I were you," Skinner said.

Bond retaliated by grabbing hold of Skinner's foot on his chest and twisting it. A cry and a loud thud was heard afterward but before the man could get to his own feet, and before Jekyll could do anything more than shove Mina behind him, Nemo had his sword brandished, inches from Campion Bond's nose.

"You think," Bond huffed. "I don't know how to disarm someone pointing a sword in my face?"

"I am certain you do, Mr. Bond," Nemo replied. "Although Mr. Holmes holds such high opinions of you, I trust that you are smart enough to realize when you are outnumbered."

Nemo's men took hold of Bond and pulled the man to his feet under orders to place him in a cell under constant surveillance. As he was being dragged out the door he turned back, his tousled light hair falling into his eyes as he glared knives at the one man who had ruined whatever plans he had hoped to accomplish. He shouted, struggling against the men who pulled him along.

"You won't be hearing the last of me, Sherlock Holmes! When the crown hears about this, you'll be the one behind bars!"

Sherlock Holmes stood calm and slightly proud when he responded with firm assurance. "What makes you so certain that they don't already know?"

The last that they saw of Bond was a face that had gone white. Holmes sighed and took his seat next to Watson as Nemo sheathed his sword.

"That's why you didn't confront him until now," Watson said to Sherlock.

"The odds of holding that man in Baker street were significantly more slim than confronting him here. I apologize for that inconvenience, but I do believe that we can now move forward with no more distractions."

"It's true, then?" Mina asked, quietly. "What you said about Tom, Henry?"

"He's admitted to nothing," Jekyll said in the same volume.

"But the odds speak highly in that favor," Sherlock said.

"Don' fink we all wan'ed to believe it," Skinner groused, making his way back to his own seat. "Bloody sod's gonna get 'is for 'at."

"What are the odds that Moriarty's plan, in creation of the League, were devised solely by him?" Nemo asked.

Sherlock Holmes took a breath before answering, with a hint of sympathy. "Highly unlikely."

"So Moriarty was a puppet," Watson concluded.

"No, not at all, Watson, simply a more realistic and less far-gone man than Richard Harding. It's only logical that my greatest adversary had a madman for a tutor. The only aspect about this person that makes him more dangerous is his obsessive nature, not his intelligence."

"No chance that he'll go down quietly, then?"

"No," a newcomer said at the door.

Everyone turned. But Nemo was the only occupant in the room who had not been surprised by the hunter's entrance. Though Quatermain looked worse for wear, he didn't doubt that he man was ready to pounce at any moment. Now that the issue had so clearly been put on the table, it felt easier to plan a course of action. And Nemo had some idea of what anticipation Quatermain had been feeling, now that Agent Sawyer was, in actuality, gone.

"Harding will not surrender," Allan continued. "That was never his plan and it never will be, not now that he has what he wants."

"Some time has passed," Mina said, gravely. "We may already be too late."

"Even so, we _will_ find them."

"There is still twenty minutes left," Sherlock added.

"Bromley," Jekyll realized. "Is that enough time?"

"If the captain, here, would be so kind as to take us a bit more up the river?"

"Consider it done," Nemo answered, rising to make the necessary orders. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Quatermain took an empty chair. Nemo spared a brief glance more before deciding that green tea may better suit the bitter mood in the room.

* * *

He came to with his hands tied behind his back. He was sitting in a chair and it was dark. He could feel the headache of a nasty hangover just beginning and briefly wondered whether he had actually decided to accompany that prostitute to her apartment, but soon realized that wasn't the case. A cloth bag, that had been placed over his head, was ripped off. For a moment the brightness of the room made him dazed. And it took him a moment to open his eyes, but when he did he instantly wished that this was the product of his alcohol indulgence. A man with gray hair and a small beard leaned in close to him, displaying nothing but coldness.

"I am going to make this very easy for you," he said. "Tell us where they are and I don't let Edward Hyde break every bone in your body."

* * *

**I'm actually rather proud of this one in certain areas. Despite the long time that it took to write. I wish I could have spent a wee bit more time refining Holmes in this chapter, but oh well. I've made you all wait long enough. I will say, though that I have no idea who the Campion Bond was like in the graphic novel so this very well may be my OC version of him. Also, there is mention of Sherlock's age in this chapter. I've just pictured him as a wee bit older than we normally picture him since this is closer to 1900 and all.**

**On a personal note: I've finished an original play that I've been working on since October. Proof that I can actually finish something after college. Now if I can only get into grad school…**

**Reviews please! I'd love to know what you think!**

**-Rainsaber**


	20. Still Glow

***Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukah, Happy Kwanza, Happy Everything Else. I actually hope no one reads this til after the holidays since it's obviously a bit depressing, but for those of you who do, there's a special surprise in this chapter. Maybe not what you're thinking, but something small to tide you over til the big chapter.* **

**Chapter Twenty—Still Glow**

A man with a heavy limp made his way down a dark street and stopped at an abandoned corner. It was nearly dawn and most of the people he wanted to see had already packed up their merchandise for the night. One friend, however, noticed his faithful patron standing on the corner. The friend approached with caution and stood close to avoid being overheard by the other departing vendors.

"Didn' expect to be seeing you here," the friend whispered. "Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock turned a hard glare on his 'friend.' "I half expected you to be gone by now, _Julian._"

"No names," the man hissed, scratching a patch of red hair on the back of his head. "No names, I get it. Sorry. Force o'habit. But what you doin' here? Though' you gave up on'a needle once and for all…bit hard to stay away, ain't it?"

Sherlock ignored the smirk, but, as predicted, that didn't deter his companion.

"But maybe you're in the market for somefin new…eh? You'd be lucky numba one if you're in'erested."

"Show me," Holmes replied.

* * *

Time was dead. There wasn't much that still mattered. Too many questions about where he was, why he was bound and naked…He couldn't afford to think. But his mind refused to stop. And the pain didn't go away. He felt heat building up in strange places. He was sweating. And the wetness on his body would occasionally make him feel cold. The fever that he knew was developing reminded him that it was cold outside. It would snow soon. He remembered hearing someone say that as he passed them on the streets so many nights ago. Perhaps it had already started, without him.

"Tom," someone moaned.

A disembodied voice. A friend. A sick fiend. Maybe worried. But what could he say to ease those worries, the unasked questions?

"Do you…hear-me?" A string of coughs or retching followed. When it passed, the raspy voice returned. "Tom?"

A breath passed by his ear and he flinched, violently, thrashing against some invisible force that he convinced himself had returned. He was able to still himself a moment later, panting and grasping at the chains with limp hands, his energy spent in the sudden episode. Pain had awoken again in his lower half. He barely had time to bite back the loud groan that would have given away that he was still here, that he was awake. No one could know that.

But the small whimper bounced off the walls endlessly. It surely gave him away. Blasted any hopes that he had. But even that didn't matter anymore. He didn't want to be rescued. Not like this. He didn't want the humiliation of the League seeing him like this, like some common whore stretched out across her work space. Vague memories of visiting a brothel, once, came to mind. How long had it taken him to drag Huck out of there? He would have smiled or let himself have a little laugh for his own sake, but it was hard to feel that carefree pleasure of remembering. Happiness was too distant for him to grasp. He supposed the guilt made it that way.

It was still hard to believe. Huck, The League, and everything afterwards was because of him. It was always him, even when he didn't know about it. There had never been a time that he had been free of it all. He had been hunted and watched for nearly his entire life. Nothing he did was ever private…and it never would be again. He wasn't dumb enough to think that he'd be trapped in this room for the rest of his life. It wasn't practical. He knew they were going to move him soon. The sounds upstairs of packing and moving proved that. And he also knew that the chances of him being rescued would pretty much slip to zero. But he didn't mind it.

It was strange. He didn't want rescue. He didn't want to die. But he also didn't want to endure a lifetime of this hell. He wasn't even sure if he knew what he wanted anymore. When he started to think of immediate wants, instead of long-term wants, it was the same. He wanted clothes or a blanket to cover himself up, to stop shivering and feeling as if he were going to freeze to death in some dank basement. But what was the use when the inevitable was going to come through that door again, depriving him of that comfort? He wanted his bonds to be broken so he could put up a decent fight when it would happen again. But what did he hope to do with the lack of strength he had now?

He was hurting, in more ways than one. And he didn't want to admit it, but the realization forced its way into his mind like Richard Harding had into his body. There was nothing he could do to stop the pain. He had no control. He was powerless and subject to someone else's whim. There were no hopes he could possibly have that could make this all go away. The only thing he could do, now that he was utterly alone, was retreat to some place that he knew Harding could never touch. He closed his eyes, exhausted even after waking from a dreamless sleep, and reconstructed his aunts house.

It was evening. There was a fire going in the sitting room. He was sitting on the sofa, leaning his head on her shoulder. She had her arm around him like she used to when he was little, and the other hand she used to comb her fingers through his hair. She was whispering his favorite story. Sid, his half brother, was already asleep in a chair across the room. He had his aunt all to himself. And next to the fire, Allan sat with an almost imperceptible smile. Tom just burrowed himself further into his aunt's arms and was almost surprised that he could even remember her old perfume after so long. He latched onto it like a newborn to the warmth of his mother.

* * *

"That your family?" Howell asked.

Rousseau grunted and, baring his teeth as he responded. "None of your buziness"

Howell dropped the heavy box he'd been carrying on the floor and rubbed his back. "I'm getting tired of all this moving. I'm going to wring Samuel's head when he gets back, bloody arse. Has Harding even told you where we're going?"

Rousseau said nothing, at first, continuing to stare at the creased picture held in his hands. "What makes you think it is a place ve are going to?"

Howell froze. "The hell are you going on about?"

This time, Rousseau was quiet.

"You don't…he wouldn't…not after all we did and what he said!"

"He is a cautious man, 'e always has been. But 'e is also a monster, like me. And monsters have needs, precautions to be taken for survival. Ze lion travels wiz ozers, hunts on 'iz own. But a snake, is _much _more cunning because he is alone. And 'e is alone because 'e eats 'iz prey."

Howell swallowed nervously and sat down, casting quick glances up the stairs.

"Snakes 'ave no allies. Snakes need no allies."

Both men were quiet for a long time. Rousseau stashed the picture in his coat pocket and put his face in his hands. Howell gritted his teeth, glaring holes into the wall.

"Just like Edwards then, is it?" Howell asked. "I'd like to see him try."

"'e has leverage over both of us. What do you suggest ve do?"

"Nothing," he said with a murderous look. "When they come for him, nothing at all."

* * *

Mina tried, for the second time to steady her hand as she prepared to drop the sample of vampiric blood onto the small piece of glass, but huffed when she realized she could not calm herself. She was ready to wipe everything onto the floor to satisfy her frustration, but Henry's hand quickly overtook her own.

"Let me," he offered.

She glared and let him complete the task. Once done he loaded the piece of glass onto the stage in the microscope, scooting aside to let her take the first look. Mina squinted her eye and watched through the eyepiece as the predicted reaction occurred to the sample of Nemo's given blood. She sat back with a sigh of relief.

"It's real," she concluded. "What he's been selling is real."

Jekyll took a look for himself and shook his head. "Fascinating."

Mina raised an eyebrow at this but said nothing.

"You do realize what this means, don't you?"

"That London will become infested with the vampiric disease that my husband and I tried so hard to render extinct? Yes, I think I realize what this means on many levels, Henry."

Henry cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. "Well, yes, but it also means something more personal for you."

Mina looked away.

"It could work, Mina."

It could work. That much was true. She has just seen the effects herself. She could go back to being what she used to be, to the one thing she had spent a great deal of time trying to kill, only to find that she had become one herself and not by choice. Now, she had that choice that she should have had so long ago. The only problem was that she was a much different person than she was then.

"The question is, do I want it to?" she said, more to herself.

Henry, however, seemed unfazed by this. "Do you?"

She had no answer and looked over to find that his hands were faintly twitching. This was a new observation that she found herself unable to look away from. She wasn't quite sure when it started, but Henry had seemed much calmer over the past few days. And it was strange because the past few days for them were more than enough to rouse something in Edward, yet she saw no outward display other than his reaction to Mr. Bond. And even then Mina was surprised to find that it wasn't completely Edward who had lashed out at the man. If she had to make an educated guess she would have said that it had been equally Henry's reaction as well as Hyde's. It was only strange because when she had first known Henry, every single action seemed to be driven by Hyde. Back in those first days he seemed less the Henry Jekyll he was now.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

He looked up, taken aback by her question. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing. You're just…much calmer than usual."

Jekyll sighed and leaned back in his seat. "There's something I haven't told you…practically no one until now, now that I'm certain."

"Certain of…" Mina prompted.

"The serum I've been taking…It's been altered. I think I may have finally found a way to make him go away."

Mina gaped. "That's-"

"Astounding, I know," Henry said with a smile. "He's been growing quieter, weaker since I've gradually introduced it. It's only a matter of time before he's finally gone from me, before I'm finally free of him. But…"

"But?" Mina pressed.

Henry licked his lips before continuing. "I'll admit that I'm not certain I want to."

She blinked, surprised at the admission. "Why?"

"He can be my voice of reason at times. If it were not for his baser nature I might not be sitting here today. And I don't mean to say that I'd be living a comfortably simple life in my home. If…if it were not for Edward, frankly, I'd be dead."

"A little dramatic of a conclusion to draw, Henry."

"Perhaps, but, nevertheless, it is true. He does try me at times, even manipulate me into doing things I wouldn't otherwise do. But what he's done is remarkable, more than I thought he was capable of when he was first conceived. He's more than a primal urge for violence and crime. Because he is part of me he molded himself to me and over time he's taught me to…well, to live."

"Live?"

"His need, his hunger for depravity comes from what we force upon ourselves for the sake of society. And _we_ are hardly acceptable models of society anymore."

"True," Mina admitted.

He bit his lip for an instant and stood, kneeling by her side. "I don't deny myself some of the things I used to anymore. Granted that I do make an effort to remain civilized, I've grown to want the freedom that he has once I've taken the serum. Anymore I've felt trapped in a cage of sorts, and I've only recently come to the conclusion that it was, in fact, I who was putting myself there. He is nothing divine, but he is also nothing wholly evil. His nature is dependent upon how I use him, how he uses me. He's like me, a person trying to find answers and…meaning, meaning that I think he may have found long before I did. He's grown calmer…around you. I…_We_ feel like one person. All because…"

Mina held her breath, waiting for an answer. Her eyes refused to look anywhere else but into his. So it came as a surprise to feel his fingers touch her cheek and slip back to her neck. He pulled her head forward slightly as he leaned in and laid his lips on top of hers, as if hesitant for fear of a wrong reaction. She, however, responded eagerly and framed his face with her hands, wanting more. And more was what he gave until they parted, breathless.

"B-because of y-you," he stuttered.

"You do realize," she whispered. "That had I been at my fullest potential you'd sooner find yourself in my bed than kneeling on that floor."

Henry smirked. "I don't think either Edward or myself would have m-minded it."

A pause followed where they both separated to catch their breaths. Neither were sure which was supposed to speak first. But, to her surprise, Jekyll took the initiative by taking a vial of the vampire blood that Sherlock Holmes had procured for them. He took her hand and pressed it into hers.

"I want you to know," he said. "That _whatever_ you may decide, _our_ feelings, for you, will never change. You are a brilliant woman, Mina Harker. Strong, intelligent, independent, and beautiful in many ways, and not because of what you are or were capable of. It is who you are that matters to us, human or vampire. We were wrong and foolish to ever doubt that about you. And…"

Mina watched with amusement as Henry looked away and shifted in place.

"I hope," he said with trepidation. "That I haven't been too forward?"

Mina smiled as she rose from her seat, leading Henry to her door.

"That should be no fear of yours," she said with a chaste kiss. "Only mine."

'Thank you' were the words she left him with before she was confronted with the decision that she had to make. And it had to be made soon. But the comforting part about it all was that the decision had already been made. It was now up to her body to follow through because the vial was still pressed into the warm palm of her hand.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes had fallen asleep on the chair he was sitting in ten minutes ago. His friend, Doctor Watson said to leave him be. Allan would have left the man to himself either way, noting the heavy bags under his eyes and the weariness visible in his hunched shoulders. He probably looked no different, worrying over Tom, but he vowed not to rest until that boy was back in the safety of their ranks.

He directed his anger out the window of their supposed headquarters that Holmes and Bond had built. It was adequate enough, warm where it needed to be and lacking where he expected it would be. But he didn't give it any real mind. It wasn't important. But neither was this plan-making either. All he wanted was to know where Tom was and to get there as soon as possible.

In the back of his mind he knew the chances and how small they were of finding the boy unharmed and nothing more than scared out of his wits. But he couldn't bring himself to even imagine the state of Tom by now. Too much time had passed with that madman. Allan Quatermain would admit it to no one, but he was afraid. He was truly afraid of what they would find. Even if it were nothing at all, he wasn't sure he'd be able to take it. His anger had been building steadily over the time since he'd been awake and he knew he was already passed his breaking point.

"We must do this as quickly as possible," Watson was saying. "To reduce the chance of escape. Surprise, I fear, is the only way we will be able to overpower these men."

"We have a location, then?" Nemo asked.

"Yes, we do."

"Then what the hell are we waiting for?" Allan growled. "They could be gone by first light, for all we know."

"As a military man," Watson said. "I think it would be wise to prepare ourselves for what we may find, if anything at all."

Sherlock opened his eyes and, if it were possible, he seemed more tired than ever. Skinner was rubbing the make-up off his face and folding his coat. Jekyll played with his pocket watch, without nerves. Mina tightened the scarf around her neck.

"Nothing," Mina started. "Will prepare us for this, doctor. We _are_ wasting valuable time."

"Someone, at least, needs to guard the back entrance-"

"My men," Nemo interjected. "Will take care of that. They are well trained."

"Hyde goes in first," Allan groused, on his way out the door.

The weight of his rifle was great but it would be nothing compared to what it would feel like if he let Tom slip past him. This man was smart. He knew to play on the boy's feelings. He had done it with countless other victims. And Allan never saw it. He should have followed his instincts to corner the boy and demand the truth instead of offer him time and comfort. Because of that weakness, Tom could very well be lost to them for good. And if he was, like that African boy had been all those years ago, then God help Richard Harding and those men because hell would seem like heaven after he was through with them.

* * *

**I know I've put a LOT of Sherlock Holmes into the story thus far, and I don't want it to seem like this character is taking over the fic, but it just so happens that right now he's a very convenient character to use in absence of the Tom/Allan relationship. Rest assured that there will be a return to that very soon, and the business with Sherlock Holmes will thin out a bit in the end, and quite a bit more in the sequel. But for those of you who have enjoyed said character, don't worry he won't be disappearing after this fic is done. **

**I understand what Alan Moore, author of the graphic novel, meant when he purposefully did not include Sherlock Holmes in the original League. Sherlock Holmes is a bit of a BIG character that does have the potential of taking over something like this if you're not careful. I was worried that my version of Holmes might seem too watered down and unauthentic to even warrant a spot in this story. But I think what I've been worried about more than anything else is giving each character their due attention and focus. In writing, everything has to have a purpose and a sound reason for being there. I THINK I've been pretty faithful to that for now, but you guys are the readers. You tell me and I listen :)**

**Next chapter will be BIG, and better than this one, I swear. I feel like I kinda threw this one together, but with good intentions! Happy Holidays everyone. **

**-Rainsaber**


	21. Blackened Pt 1

**-Specifically, for this chapter I've created my own section breaks because there are a LOT of them. **

**-As it turns out this chapter is probably just as bad, if not worse than, chapter 18, but the graphic section will be bookended with bolded breaks, so keep an eye out for those if you'd like to skip it (7****th**** down). It does get a little intense so I am warning you all now.**

**-Big thanks to all my reviewers (**DocRock06, yaonne-san, NightAssassin, KissingRain102, Druid Archer, ROSSELLA1, NerdPrincess07, and Illyria13…**I think that's everyone, if not please kick me****) and readers. This thing is almost over and your encouragement through out has kept me going. Here's to the New Year, closing books, and opening new ones.***

Chapter Twenty One—Blackened Pt. 1

* * *

Richard Harding leaned against the cool window, pressing his forehead and hands into the gritty surface of the dirty glass. His heart swelled somewhere in his chest and he breathed condensation onto the window. He watched as it gathered and began to drip down to the pane below. All was made ready. Nearly all of their supplies had been moved. And there was only one more crate to move. They would be gone before sunrise, and if all went according to plan, he would be rid of the extra baggage soon afterwards. He glanced at the celebratory bottle of wine by his feet and paused to think. Their departure depended on when Rousseau finished…he had time. So he left the window, leaving prints in his wake.

LXG LXG LXG LXG LXG

"Tom? Tom Sawyer?"

Tom blearily opened his eyes to a stinging array of shadows and light. His head felt like someone had split it open. Even the slightest movement of it sent waves of nausea down to his stomach that couldn't be ignored. His body jerked into action, turning, getting stuck, held back as he retched himself empty. His arm ached at the awkward angle of the restraint and he moaned as he collapsed back on the mattress he just messed on. The strong stench brought him back after a few minutes of rest.

He opened his eyes and saw a small boy standing by the right side of his bed. The boy looked no older than ten and had a mop of brown hair on his little head. He was pale, his clothes were mussed with dirt, and his eyes were the most brilliant shade of green that Tom had ever thought he'd seen in his life. The boy didn't smile, but Tom thought that he seemed content in some way. He longed to reach out, to touch the little boy and satisfy his fears that he hadn't lost his mind.

"Who are you," Tom rasped.

"My name is Eli," the boy said.

"Eli," Tom whispered. "Eli…?" The name seemed so familiar, as if it were buried under memories from long ago, as if he'd always known this little boy and that he should know him.

"You have someone coming for you."

Those eyes…they looked so old and so young at the same time. How was this possible? How had this little boy gotten in? Didn't he know what was prowling around upstairs? Tom sobered a little and tried pulling on the restraints again, tearing open some cuts in the skin. But all he could care about was protecting the kid, getting him out of harms way, hiding him, something! He'd be damned if he was going to let this happen to someone else. No one deserved it.

"Kid," he groaned. "You can't be here…! N-no-you need to get out before-"

"We want what you never had."

Tom blinked and stopped struggling, his eyelids sluggish from the lack of energy. "…W-we?"

"All of us. We want what you never had."

He felt his brow crease in confusion. "What I…what didn' I e-ever-have?"

"Justice," Eli said.

Tom stared at the boy but he backed away, breaking eye contact. Tom called out to him when he saw the sadness, but the boy didn't stop. And in an instant it struck him that he didn't know this boy at all. The only thing he ever knew was his name. Seeing it on a page, in a room, not so long ago. The picture of the little boy with the same soft features lying in the grass, alone, and with a bullet in his head.

"Elijah…King."

The boy stopped and turned around, face expressionless. "They're coming. We need your voice."

And that was all he said before he was gone. Tom blinked furiously, shaking from the shock that he was either certifiably insane or that he had just seen a ghost. Seeing things was not a good sign...He yearned to return to the bliss he'd briefly known in his imagination, because that was surely better than seeing things that he wasn't purposefully trying to conjure up, but part of him knew that he wouldn't be able to return to his aunt after seeing what he had just seen. Did they really expect him to fight after everything he went through? Wasn't lying here after the fact painful enough? Now they wanted him to try and live, try and see this through? Who were they to ask that of him? But was what they went through any different? And hadn't he wanted a chance to make everything right?

This was his chance, then, wasn't it? But what good was he on his own? He needed help, and according to Eli he just needed to have a little faith. He tried hard not to let himself laugh at the idea.

LXG LXG LXG LXG LXG

Jekyll fingered the bottle of serum in his pocket as they walked in small groups, distanced apart to avoid attention. He glanced at Mina across from him and studied her complexion, smiling to himself as Edward voiced the same conclusion_.—She's ours again, Henry— _He cleared his throat and lowered his voice as he spoke.

"I s-see you've decided."

Mina gave him a sad smile. "I am of more use in this form. And we have unfinished business that needs tending to. Death can wait."

Jekyll smirked and saw as Nemo gave him the signal from up ahead. He quickly ducked into an alleyway and brought out the bottle. "Quickly done now, Edward."

Hyde chuckled with anticipation. _—Try not to scream too loud, Henry—_

The serum burned on its way down his throat. The bottle fell from his fingers and he clamped a hand over his mouth, hunching as his body started to jerk in all directions. The thrill started to peak, and once it did, Henry had lost all control, falling into the nothing that had become Hyde's home.

LXG LXG LXG LXG LXG

Smell, sound, sight, and sensation were in such sharp focus. Hard to breathe…take a breath without the pain. Gasping. Not enough air. Things expanding and contracting. Changing. Twisting. Popping. Scream to make the pain dull. Stopped as soon as it started. Deaf. Only for a moment. Heavy ringing. Eyes clenched shut. Liquid seeping from between the creases, reaching his nose, his parched lips. Clarity. And clear as day, morning that was coming. Mycroft is suddenly aware of himself and that he has just wept blood.

LXG LXG LXG LXG LXG

Watson was beginning to think that leaving his cane back on the Captain's ship was not such a good idea. But he could ignore a little pain for a while longer, if it meant finding their missing agent and Holmes' brother alive. They hid across the street from their destination, each settled into position, ready to spring into action. It was clear that their enemies were still in the residence. One sat at a desk by an upstairs window. And another sat by a fire on the first floor. Although a similar situation would have screamed a trap to him, this, for whatever unnamable reason, did not.

"Go, Skinner," Quatermain commanded.

And the soft patter of feet leave them, crossing the street with a lock pick in hand. Watson glanced back at Sherlock who was watching intently. He reached out and clapped a hand on the detective's shoulder, grasping it hard. Sherlock didn't seem surprised by it and refused to tear his gaze away. Being a soldier, he knew the odds of finding their companions both alive and well. Although he was a fairly decent doctor he also knew that he would be horribly under-prepared for whatever fallout became of this raid.

"We will find him, Sherlock," Watson whispered, encouraging confidence in his friend but also desperately trying to find some for himself.

Holmes stayed silent.

LXG LXG LXG LXG LXG

Skinner hurried across the street not really feeling the cold air whip past him. He glanced through the keyhole of the front door before picking it. Abandoned house, sparse furniture, dirt and whatever else kind of filth on the floors and stairs. Skinner inserted the pick as if it were incapable of producing a sound and set to work on the tumblers. As he made it past the first two his thoughts turned to Sawyer. His last memory of the boy was of that determined face of his. He wondered if he'd ever done anything that pushed the kid to do what he did. He didn't have an answer, so he did the next best thing. He prayed. Rodney Skinner started to pray.

_I know you ain't takin' time wiv blokes like me, but you owe it to the kid to see 'im through. I know an innocent when I sees one. He didn' deserve what you threw him and 'e cer'ainly don' deserve this. You do what needs doin' 'cause people like me know you can fuck up jus' like us. Now make it right. Make. It. Right!_

But he stopped cold in his tracks when he heard something God awful, something that made his insides drop out from beneath him. It startled him so badly that the pick snapped in his hands. If that wasn't proof that there wasn't someone watching out for them, Skinner didn't know what was. He could do nothing else but turn around to the group, helpless, and for the first time in his life, petrified that he had somehow just made a grave mistake.

**LXG LXG LXG LXG LXG**

The distant sound of a shackle being released woke him up. He opened his eyes slowly, settling his gaze on the man who stood at the foot of his bed. Then his gaze lowered to his feet which were free of the restraints. Bloody cuts, darkening bruises, and angry red marks were left as reminders. But he ignored the sight and looked back up at Harding with hard-set eyes. It came as a bit of a shock to have cold water thrown in his face and over his body after the staring match they had.

Tom coughed and spluttered as he tried to shake the water out of his eyes. Although he started to shiver he managed a glare up at the bastard who did it. All Harding did was leer down at him as he tossed a pair of rumpled pants and a dirty shirt onto his chest. He circled around the bed and reached behind his head to release the restraints on his wrists. Tom couldn't help the flinch when the man got too close, but he did restrain himself from jumping at the man in blind anger when he was released.

"Time to go, Thomas," he said. "Now, get up."

Tom clamped his jaw shut, dragged his aching arms down to his sides and balled his hands into fists despite the pain and discomfort. "No," he hissed.

Harding whirled around and lunged at Tom. He managed to throw his arms up in time, but Harding batted the away as if they were an afterthought. Tom was grabbed by the remnants of his shirt and thrown across the cement floor. He grunted as he landed in a heap on his stomach. Almost immediately after he tried to get up he felt a strong kick in his side that took the wind out of him. He collapsed back to the floor but was shoved onto his back with a foot.

"Here I've come to clean up the mess that _YOU_ MADE," Harding shouted. "I give you fresh clothes and release you and you DEFY ME?" He paused to laugh. "This is rich! I've clearly underestimated you, boy. You are as stubborn as a bloody wall."

He reached down, grabbed Tom's hands and dragged him across the floor back to the bed. Tom tried to struggle but wound up squirming instead. "Let go," he said. "Let go a me you son of a bitch!"

"Do try to sound more convincing, Thomas!"

Harding grabbed the pants he threw at Tom earlier and wrapped his wrists together, around a leg at the foot of the bed. "The hell do you want? You got what you wanted you sick fuck!"

"And what of you," Harding asked, leaning down.

"Let me go and-"

Harding grabbed Tom's face, palm closing over his mouth. "I'm having none of that you foolish little boy! Do you want to know why you scream?" Tom struggled but Harding kept him down. "Do you want to know why you feel pain instead of pleasure?"

Tom moaned through the hand covering his mouth, trying to find the resolve he gained not too long ago. He tried moving his legs but the pain in his lower half made movement nearly impossible. Harsh breaths came and went through his nose because the fear was not helping him. He needed to be smart about this and he needed to come up with something fast.

"I've been the foolish one," Harding said, trailing kisses along the length of Tom's jaw. "You need to understand. You need to know. There is a kind of thrill that goes along with it," he said, making his way down Tom's neck. The hand over his mouth loosened, but the fingers remained, gently trying to coax their way past his lips. Tom, however, kept his teeth firmly shut. "Of having someone at your mercy…"

Tom could feel him going down his chest, leaving a warm trail amidst the cold that had been poured over him. Cold or not the trembling in his body was starting to get to him. His skin, thanks to Harding, was more sensitive now, looking for warmth of any kind. And it was distracting him from finding a way out. But the touching needed to stop. This was worse than before. It wasn't rough and sudden like the first time, it was slow and careful, as if Harding were reminding him that he had all the time in the world to take as long as he wanted with him. Not for the first time did his mind scream out that this was wrong, that it shouldn't be happening, or that he should be able to do something…anything to make it stop!

He planted a foot and tried to shove the man off of him but searing pain erupted from between his legs. He silenced the brunt of the shout that almost broke free. Instead of control he got a cold sweat, a strong wave of disorientation, and tremors that weakened his rebellious thinking to practically nothing. Harding paused, resting his hands on Tom's hips.

"You need to stand a little pain to feel the pleasure. I didn't understand that at first. And no one else did until I tried to teach them. But with you I can see we need to do something different."

Tom looked down, confused and a little scared because he really had no idea what to make of this change in the man. What did he _want_? "What," Tom asked.

"You did very well the first time," Harding said, throwing the remnants of the torn pants off Tom's legs. "And I was careless earlier. But you need to learn."

"N-no, stop," Tom panted. "What? Learn _what?_"

"Love is nothing more than an appreciation for the flesh," he hissed, lowering his head. "And your walls of defense are just as weak as mine."

Harding grabbed Tom then, wrapping him in the firm embrace of his fingers. Immediately Tom started to protest, loudly at first. But as Harding started to stroke him in an agonizingly slow manner, Tom's protests started to die into whimpers of discomfort. He closed his eyes tight and tried to block it out but the man was there. No matter how much Tom wanted the League there to make it stop, because he simply didn't have the cards anymore, it wouldn't. Nothing had stopped the unthinkable before. What was to stop it now? The worst, though, was that the friction Harding was creating between Tom and his own hand generated heat, an odd and twisted form of comfort that Tom desperately tried to ignore.

And the worst part was that he was suddenly exposed to a different kind of heat too quick for him to process. Tom's eyes snapped open and shot down at the feeling of something hot and wet on him. He couldn't help the twitch and sudden jerk that his hips gave, which made it all the more humiliating. Harding simply smiled and moaned approval as he slipped his lips deeper around Tom. Any control or plan was quickly abandoned as he squirmed and prayed that Harding would stop. The moans of discomfort turned into sad wailings and pleas for his attacker to cease.

"You see? You want this just as much as I do. But I haven't even shown you the best part."

"No," Tom cried. "Please, no."

"Yes," Harding said, grabbing his chin and forcing the tearful boy to face him. "Yes, yes, yes. You will come for me, boy. That's the only way you'll understand what we are."

Harding lowered himself back down and Tom felt the hot wetness again, but this time with pressure, and before he could make another sound, a blinding pain shot through his body as he felt a finger invade the wounded space between his legs. What happened next was not out of choice. His body overruled his rebellious mind, which by this point had neared the limit of being tamed. It was mercy that he had been granted because he could no longer feel, only watch as a bystander. His body let loose a scream that tore his vocal cords to pieces.

**LXG LXG LXG LXG LXG**

What they heard, though it hadn't been that loud, broke through the quiet of the pre-dawn morning. For Nemo, it brought up painful memories from a long long time past. In his minds eye he was running up the road to his home, sounds of gunshots echoing in the distance. There was no smoke, no damage done to his home. But the bodies of his family, of his children lying in the halls, on the ground, and in rooms that once held happy memories, had broken the foundation of his heart.

He left that day with nothing more than his own imaginings of how they died, what they had been doing, or whether they had suffered much. He heard their screams in his nightmares, calling out to him, as if he alone could stop the small army that it took to decimate his entire livelihood. This scream, by a young man who was just about to come into adulthood, brought back the horrible tension that had built up over the years. It validated everything his imagination had been plaguing him with, and would, no doubt, for years to come.

Quatermain tense in front of him and his hand holding the rifle steady shook as he turned around and gave Hyde the signal. Nemo didn't contradict the sudden change of plans. Seeing how the hunter's heart had been run through as his had was enough. _They_ had waited long enough.

"It's t-too s-soon," Watson stuttered, half-heartedly. "What if-"

"I don't give a damn," Allan growled. "We're going in now! MOVE!"

LXG LXG LXG LXG LXG

Howell sat with his back to the door when it was broken open. His laid his hands on the arms of the chair, out and open, surrendering his one chance he had left at living. All that mattered to him was living long enough to write to his family. There was no doubt in his mind that he'd go down for everything that man had done, but it was better than being stabbed in the back and left to die. Howell preferred to know when he was going to die. And Bromley's betrayal now had a different meaning for him. Both his arms were taken and twisted behind his back. Subsequently he was shoved, face-first into the crate that his feet had been resting on moments earlier.

"Where are they?" someone hissed in his ear.

"Base-ment," he said through gritted teeth, though before he was done speaking he was released.

He looked up to see four men descend into to the lower level and listened to the commotion upstairs. Then he realized that the front door was wide open. But then a weight settled between his shoulders, pushing him back down. And the voice in his other ear erased all thoughts of escape.

"You run, you die. You stay righ' where you are and I keep Hyde from rippin' you limb from limb."

LXG LXG LXG LXG LXG

Hyde destroyed every door on the second floor landing, even the one that had been holding one of the missing scientists. Hyde stopped inside the doorway so Mina had to peer around him to see what had stopped him dead. Rousseau, nearly unrecognizable, lay slumped against the far wall, a knife plunged into his chest, his own hand curled around the hilt. The blood dripped from his mouth and though it made her very hungry, she was able to put it aside out of danger to herself and pure curiosity.

Rousseau wheezed as his eyes darkened, but he dragged his eyes up and beckoned to them. Mina stepped around Hyde, ignoring his growl is disproval, and approached the dying scientist. Through her own senses she could see Rousseau as the man he once was, before the experiments. The broken glass of a small vial littered his lap. He held out a second vial of clear liquid to her. She knelt and took it, fingering the glass and the heat that the contents produced. Her eyes widened when she realized what he had just given her.

"No'singk…like zis…shou-shouldt…live."

"You've found a cure," Mina whispered.

"Temp-orary-…Save…ze English-man. Not…not-not…late. Not. Find o-one…s-sa-ve…"

The scientist shuddered and gasped for breath. Mina knew he was on the brink of death, but did not pause to watch him slip away. She flew out of the room and was on the stairs when she heard what could only be described as a loud howl of pain. An older man, exactly how old or who she couldn't tell. But she still did not pause in her descent. It spurred her on because she refused to believe that she or they were too late for either Sawyer or Mycroft Holmes.

LXG LXG LXG LXG LXG

Ahead of him, Sherlock jumped down the stairs, bounding past Quatermain and Nemo to the room that clearly held his brother. Watson spared a brief glance at the room with the open door that they passed and immediately wished he hadn't. He paused, frozen in place at the sight. But it was Holmes that focussed him, shouting at him to help with the locked door. Together they managed to break it open, but what lay at the end of the room was just as horrifying.

Sherlock stumbled forward, calling Mycroft's name, taking hold of his bloodied and clammy face. Seconds passed, and the stillness remained. And immediately the detective descended into a fit, shaking and mumbling. Watson ran to his friend, slipping in the mess of blood next to the body, but grabbing a hold of Holmes nonetheless. He reacted violently at his friend's touch and Watson fought hard to keep a firm hold of him. He knew he should check the body, but his mind refused to let him catalogue the validation of immense emotional pain that Sherlock was feeling. Abruptly, he managed to twist out of the doctor's hold and throw his back against the wall. He leaned into it but raked his hands through his hair before he clenched patches of it tight and howled to the heavens with anger, sadness, and regret.

LXG LXG LXG LXG LXG

What does it take, for someone to believe in God? What does it take to shake that faith, to break it? And once it's broken is it beyond repair, too far below the surface to reach? Prayer was not something that came easy after so much time and heartache. It made things more difficult, harder to focus on. And prayer took time. It took effort and strength that some couldn't afford to waste.

Allan bounded down the rickety staircase into the dark basement with Nemo trailing behind. Holmes and Watson flew past them to the left, to one of the two doors that remained closed. Light from the coming morning was starting to seep through the dirty windows, but they didn't illuminate much. Through the open door on the right Allan could barely make out the legs of a body that was partially hidden by the dirty iron-framed bed. His body froze, momentarily, eyes fixed on the bloody and bruised ankles that stuck out.

Allan didn't need Nemo behind him to give him the push he needed. He went of his own accord, after the startling sound of Holmes and Watson breaking in the other door. The sight of the boy alone would have been enough to turn any remaining hair on his head white. But, thankfully, survival mode kicked in and before he knew it he had laid down his rifle and shrugged off his coat. His eyes watered but like the stubborn old man that he was, he pushed them back for another time. Fear was steadily building in his chest as he noticed the blank emotionless face, as if he didn't know they were there, that they had finally come for him.

"Tom," Allan choked out.

No response came. He threw the coat over the drenched boy to help preserve heat and whatever dignity remained for him. Allan couldn't help the hand that gravitated towards the far-too-warm cheek. He was afraid the boy wouldn't recognize him, flinch away, or go into a fit like he'd done before when he was sick, but none of that happened. Tom stayed perfectly still, but his eyes slowly closed, tears flowing as if through some broken dam.

Whether the grimace was from physical or emotional pain, Allan didn't know, but he did know that the boy needed a doctor, now. "You'll be alright, son," he said. "We've got you-We've got you now, I swear-"

The hunter wanted so much to just take the wounded boy in his arms and convince him that it was all over, but deep down in his gut he knew he couldn't do that because he'd be lying. Someone shouted in the next room over, reminding Allan that they already had a doctor with them, two once Hyde took his leave. And the boy needed one before anyone could think of moving him.

Allan's head whipped around, and just in time to warn Nemo as Harding sprung from the shadows behind the door with a lead pipe. The captain ducked and spun, kicking out. Harding stumbled but he recovered well enough to make another swipe with his weapon. Nemo missed the pipe by inches as he righted himself. His sword rung against the hilt as he pulled it out to block another strike.

Metal on metal clanged behind him as he turned his attention back to Tom. Allan's hands worked furiously to release the boy's. Once he did he threw the pants away and made a grab for his rifle. Nemo had gained the upperhand and hacked Harding's weapon to pieces. Allan turned around just in time to see Nemo deal a significant slash across the man's arm. He watched with a blooming of satisfaction as the man cried out, falling to the floor under Nemo's close blade. But the captain did not deal the fatal blow, and that made Allan see red. He would have sprung up and finished the job himself, but the red vanished when he heard something vaguely familiar and disturbingly new.

"No," Tom gasped, grabbing hold of Allan's knee, desperate. "Don' kill…Don't. Please!"

* * *

**THIS CHAPTER…ugh. Darkest one yet and I had no idea I had that left in me. It's a little difficult to describe things when some are happening at the same time, which means you have to pick and choose between some things. The big question, I guess, is whether or not I actually just did that…But I refuse to spoil anything….but then again the act of refusing to spoil something does in retrospect spoil something…fuck. IGNORE ME. **

**I decided to do a little bit of a different take on things and just make it a collage of nearly every character. And it was fun, working in shorts like this because to me it feels a bit like a movie would. But anyway, one more chapter and an epilogue to go. I kind of can't believe that it's almost done. But then again I am anxious for Harding to get what's coming to him, and don't worry, the bastard will. **

**-Rainsaber**

**Ps. I would actually like to hear from everyone what you think about this chapter, so review if you can, please! **


	22. Blackened Pt 2

**Came out much more prosy than I thought. The short version of my humble and profuse apology is that this chapter was entirely different when I conceptualized it. And the reason why it took so long to write was because it changed dramatically and ended up being what you see here. Apologies for the wait! **

***This may make some people a bit uncomfortable but I promise there isn't anything graphic in this chapter, just things that are implied. ***

**Chapter Twenty Two—Blackened Pt. 2**

He latched onto the fabric of the knee that was within reach. His hand shook under the slightest strain but he held on as if his life depended on it. It wasn't his life, but it may as well have been. He was no longer a victim suffering in silence and loneliness. He was one of many who, like him, knew what it was like to lay beneath that monster and take the pain. Fate was cruel to those victims, but not to him. He, among all others, lived to see Harding at someone else's mercy. It sent a chill of anticipation throughout his body because he knew what would happen if he stayed silent.

The saddest part of it all was that if the old Tom Sawyer had been in this position, he would have let the man die. But something had changed within him when he saw…or thought he saw Elijah's ghost. He saw all the other boys, the women and unfortunate little girl, and, most important of all, memories of himself in that heavenly body. What he saw was the entrapment of tortured souls in the form of someone who could no longer feel bodily pain.

For a while, it made him forget his own pain, as he floated in a sea of pity. He thought of all the years of his life that he wasted, all the nights he had woken up under wet sheets, all the days that he jumped at shadows that weren't there, and all the times that his aunt, Huck, and the boys would ask him what was wrong. The answer was always the same. The same two-word combinations that still left a bitter aftertaste on his tongue were what nearly killed him.

'I'm fine.'

'Nothing's wrong.'

'Don't worry.'

Never before had he realized how wrong those words were, how ugly they looked, and how horrible they sounded. Something was definitely wrong. There was cause for worry. And he, most certainly, after being kidnapped and raped by the person who had attacked him all those years ago, was _not_ fine. Probably never would be. Those words were feeble excuses for his own selfishness. They were his defense against the memories so he could go on day to day with some semblance of normalcy. But now…? How could he rise above them when they had become so familiar?

It was the cacophony of unspoken voices that called him back from a place deep inside himself. They begged and pleaded with him, pulled him out, gave him the strength that he knew would soon leave him. They had faith. They had faith where he didn't. He knew it wouldn't last, but for right now it was enough. So he pushed the words out as best he could, feeling his throat tear and burn in the process.

"Don' kill," Tom said. "Don't. Please!"

He gasped for air, letting his head fall back to where it was before. Too much movement, and he was going to be sick again. Something told him there wasn't anything to throw up. He felt disappointment at that. Purging, despite the pain, would feel right afterward because he'd be getting the poison out of his body that had been forced inside. But then he remembered that he wasn't alone. And he couldn't do things like that in front of other people. His face was wet, warm, cold. Both. But he still hung on to that knee, praying that he would be heeded. They needed peace. He needed relief.

"Tom…" someone said.

He clenched his eyes shut to help with the nausea and tried speaking again. "I-I ain't…savin'm," Tom replied, too quiet even for himself to hear at times. "Needs'ta…pay-for-what he-done-" Tears leaked out of the tightly pressed folds of his eyelids. "Not…jus'… to me!"

A hand covered his, caught it and kept it in a firm grasp even though he flinched at the contact. A small noise escaped him, regardless of his fight to not seem as broken as he felt. He wanted to leave. He didn't want to be here anymore. Not here. Not in pain. Not anything at all.

"Nemo," someone said in a tight voice. _Angry_, Tom thought. "Get him out of my sight."

He grimaced and opened his eyes, unable to look up and face the rejection. He tried to pull his hand free in shame but the other hand held him tight. So he turned, and saw someone familiar, in blue. Blue in the darkness. Those dark eyes turned on him, soft and…forgiving? They turned away and the man in blue tried to lift another man, but in a flash he was gone. There was a loud thud. Someone lunged at him and Tom reacted on pure instinct. He heaved himself away, on his side, with a cry of fear and curled up.

There was shouting, shuffling, and loud noises, but Tom couldn't make out anything clearly over the sound of his own breathing. The danger of what had happened and what was going to happen again, because of something he did, made him shake like a leaf. He'd done something wrong. He was going to be punished. It was his fault. He deserved it. Something was wrong. Wrong on so many levels. Wrong with him. Was there something wrong with wanting things to start being right? Could things be right anymore? Or were they ever right in the first place?

His thoughts spiraled as they fell, down to the one moment in falling dreams when you're about to hit the bottom. Usually you manage to wake yourself up. Sometimes you can almost feel the hit, or convince yourself that it actually happened even though it's hard to remember when you wake up. But Tom remembered this one. He felt it as plainly as he felt that kick to the side that knocked the air out of his lungs earlier. But this time it was a different kind of pain that took his breath away.

"Get him out!" the same voice shouted.

* * *

There were not many men in Allan's lifetime, whom he had come across, that deserved mercy. He had been preparing himself for the moment he could choke the life out of Richard Harding. He had certainly gained some pleasure from squeezing the life out of the man who dared to take Harry's life away. Vengeance was sweet and seductive to those who knew no other way to make the pain of failure disappear. And he had almost succumbed to that power again.

It wasn't shock from his willingness to comply with Tom's wishes that stopped his rationale of the situation around them. It was Tom's selflessness in spite of all that Allan could see had taken place in his absence. Of all the horrors that Allan didn't have the heart to imagine, Tom still thought beyond himself and his own needs. He wondered at the weak boy whose hand he held against his own knee. Warriors and soldiers long dead from his younger and impetuous years exhibited the kind of bravery he was seeing right now. He was seeing this in a boy half their ages, a near-child who knew far too much about harm and injury than anyone ever should in a single lifetime…he was seeing all of this in a victim to an unspeakable crime.

All coherent thoughts left him when Harding overcame Nemo. Allan was barely able to keep his promise to the boy when Harding lunged at him. Perhaps the blow to the head was a little too hard, but it mattered little. What really mattered was keeping his temper in check. Shouting at Nemo to get the bastard out of his sight was him cooling down. Tom was important. Tom was alive. That alone was enough to keep him somewhat collected for the time being.

As Nemo manhandled an unconscious and bleeding Richard Harding out the door, Allan had the sudden sense to take stock of the boy. When he caught sight of Tom curled inward a few feet away, with his back turned, his mind immediately turned to the door and whether or not Tom still had enough nervous energy in him to make for an escape attempt. Allan could practically smell the fear radiating off the heap buried beneath his coat.

"Tom?" he whispered, creeping closer as slowly as he could take.

"Sorry-sorry-sorry!" was what Tom kept mumbling to himself, closer in unison the closer that Allan got. "m'sorrym'sorrym'sorry-"

He grabbed hold of the boy's shoulder, intending to shake him out his stupor, but the soft noise and tension that erupted so suddenly stopped his plan. Allan pulled back the coat to get a glimpse of the fear etched in Tom's face. Wild eyes turned onto him and the hunter had to spare himself a second's pause to push forward. What he had in his hands was fragile, at the point of breaking if he wasn't careful. The trembling he felt under his fingers was nearly enough to break his own resolve to help the boy.

"Tom," he whispered again. "Calm down, son. I'm not going to hurt you."

"m'sorry," Tom repeated. "Sorrysorry-"

"Shush now. You have _nothing_ to be sorry for. Do you hear me?"

Tom shook his head, eyes growing dangerously glossy. "…bad…bad."

"Listen to me. Whatever that man fed to you is a lie. You know that. I'm here now. The League is here. He can't hurt you anymore."

"But-"

"He _won't_ hurt you anymore. I promise you. Do you believe me? Do you trust me, Tom?"

He half-expected the boy to say no. After all it was his fault that Tom was lying here, bleeding and sick. There were so many times that he could have gleaned the truth from him, cornered the American and forced him to admit that he was hiding something terrible. But he could never think of what to do after that, of how to comfort Tom and deal with the issue that was staring him in the face right now, making him a bloody old fool who had failed yet another son. He settled for letting the boy come to terms with it on his own, trusting that Tom would come to him in time. And he believed that would happen of it's own accord, never stopping to think that circumstances, as they were, would get in their way. All of this around them was due to his own misjudgments. Tom was sure to think the same…

But after a moment's thought, Tom clamped his mouth shut, closed his eyes, and nodded, making a real effort to calm himself down. Allan's heart swelled at the glint of progress and took in what the moment between them had to offer. He couldn't imagine the challenges that awaited them both as far as Tom's recovery went, but if he could get through to the boy now, then the future gave him some hope.

"Home," Tom whispered. "Not-here…home?"

"That's where we're going. But we need to get you looked at before we move you-"

"No."

"Tom-"

"Nonoplease? No-"

"I can't tell on my own how bad this is," Allan soothed. "And you know how foolish it would be to let something like this go. I can already see you've got some infection and that's bad enough, but if we move you without knowing where or how bad you're hurt then we could make it worse. And that is not going to happen. You've got two options. Jekyll when the serum is done or Mr. Holme's friend, Dr. Watson. The sooner we get this done with the sooner we can get you home."

"It…it'll…hurt."

Allan bit his lip and held back the multitude of emotions that rose to the surface. The last thing he wanted was to put Tom in more pain than he was already in, and from the sound of his debilitating voice, he was putting himself through a significant amount just for him. But what he couldn't do was take matters into his own hands when he was at a disadvantage here. Tom was going to live, even if Allan had to trade his to make it work. And it was for the best if this was done now so they would be ready to act as soon as they stepped foot inside the infirmary.

Allan took a deep breath before continuing. "It probably will. But you need to understand that I will not let you leave this room without knowing what to avoid. I don't want to make anything worse. Do you understand?"

Tom turned away and rested his wet head on the cold floor. Then a hand fought its way up to Allan's on his shoulder. Allan grasped it tightly with his other hand, willing strength into the beaten body beneath his. "Wat-son," Tom slurred.

"Alright," Allan said with a breath of relief. "Good. Good." Now, the question was, how to get the doctor who was probably next door tending to the elder Holmes? As if sensing his inner debate, Tom clenched his fingers as tight as he could around Allan's.

"S-stay?"

"I'm not going anywhere. Now, I'm going to have to raise my voice to get the doctor's attention…Try to keep calm."

Tom nodded slowly, and for the first time since their reunion, the tension in his body seemed to relax the slightest bit. The hunter hated to disturb it. But the courage that the boy displayed gave him courage of his own to see this done. He made a vow to himself as he waited for the doctor's response. He would not only see this deed done but he would live to see the day that this darkness left Tom. By any means necessary.

* * *

"Holmes?"

The outburst that Watson had just witnessed from the infamously emotionless detective shook him to his core. The gravity of the situation around them hadn't hit until then. The cold skin under his fingers and the absence of a pulse sent chills up his spine. What began as a gross miscalculation between colleagues had ended with the death of Sherlock's elder brother. Death. Dead. Mycroft Holmes was dead…after enduring torture for someone else's mistake.

The shock made it seem surreal. And the silence that Sherlock had fallen into made it more so. Watson turned back to his grieving friend and was met with the sight of a wide-eyed blank face wet with traces of tears that had fallen while his back had been turned. The detective sat on the ground with his knees drawn up and arms poised atop them, as if he'd forgotten to properly curl himself into a ball. It wouldn't have been the first time Watson had seen him like this, but this was different. The mask was back in place, askew.

Controlling his own tears proved to be difficult when he bent down and faced the friend that he had made a promise to. He'd never contemplated the idea that they would have been too late. It never seemed a viable option. Sure, Holmes had made miscalculations before, but they had always seemed to come out alright in the end of things. This…this was an end of different proportions. Life changing. If Sherlock was blaming himself, then John was going to soldier that burden as well.

He grasped Sherlock's shoulder and received a flinch of a facial muscle in response. Guilt started to settle in, ripping an entrance and burrowing herself deep where she knew she could run her roots. No amount of cocaine or morphine could erase this reality for Holmes. No combination of alcohol, work, or gambling could distract Watson long enough to forget that this had ever happened. It was, without doubt, their greatest failure.

Some time later, when the remaining Holmes' resolve had begun to falter, Mrs. Harker entered the room in a flurry. Watson's head whipped around and saw her examining the body. Indignation instantly flared up and he heard himself speaking before he had a thought to censor himself for Sherlock's sake.

"Whatever you're doing don't bother," Watson said. "He's dead."

He felt the detective start under him, but that statement didn't deter the vampire. "No, doctor," she said in a hurry. "He is not."

Out of her hands he caught sight of a small vial. "What the bloody hell is that?"

"Something that will save him."

He was on his feet in less than a second as she poured the contents down Mycroft's throat. He snatched the empty vial away and smelled nothing out of the ordinary. And, as predicted, nothing happened.

"What do you think you are doing," he hissed. "This man is dead. I checked him myself-"

And in that instant, just as he had uttered his earthly assurances, he was proved an idiot. As if from the depths of death, Mycroft's body lurched forward in his seat, shaking and gasping for air. It gave Mrs. Harker and himself such a fright that neither of them knew what to do as they gaped at a man come back from the dead.

"Oh my God," Watson muttered.

"Mycroft?" a quiet voice said behind them.

Before Watson had a chance to turn around, Sherlock was in front of him with his full attention directed to his rousing brother. It was completely inexplicable. Medically it made no sense. Never mind the absence of pulse or warmth. The blood loss alone told him all he needed to know. It was simply impossible for any man, especially of Mycroft's age, to live after expelling that amount of blood from his system. And yet here he was, moaning and coughing under Sherlock's hands. Alive.

The miraculous reunion he was witnessing, however, was cut short by a shout from the room next to them. Watson remembered the other reason they had come, the other person they had hopes of saving. He hadn't even contemplated the American's condition since they set foot through the door. He wanted to stay and survey the progress, but something told him that there was nothing he could do for the man yet. He laid a quick but firm hand on Holmes' back as he lent over and spoke to the vampire before hurrying to the door.

"Call if anything worsens. I'll only be in the next room."

* * *

It was only a few moments later that Allan's call was answered. The doctor came through the door on unsteady feet and with a white face. Immediately, the hunter's thoughts turned to the other person they had come for.

"Mycroft?" Allan asked.

"He's alive," Watson responded. "It's remarkable. By all medical reason he should have been dead but…Mrs. Harker, she…she gave him something, maybe from upstairs…I don't know, but he started coming around. Truly something, I tell you."

Allan nodded and raised a hand at the doctor's approach, signaling him to advance slowly. He then turned back to the boy, ready to bolster their resolves for what needed to be done, but Tom already looked as if he just wanted to get through the examination. That, at least, was something good. He wasn't entirely sure he would know how to handle the boy if he started fighting back. Frankly, he was afraid he'd give in to those whims that told him to spare Tom the discomfort.

"We're going to need to move him into the light so I can see the damage done."

Allan looked up at the doctor and only then noticed that dawn had risen. The sun, in fact, had begun shining through the small window at the top of the wall. Brilliant yellow from a long overdue morning broke the heaviness of the room, bringing a kind of comfort that only someone who wanted to forget could glean. Allan could tell the second he set Tom down under its rays.

"Hello, Tom," Watson started. "Do you remember who I am?"

Tom nodded, growing ever more wary, but significantly less tense than before with Allan supporting him from behind. The boy squirmed a bit, trying to find a comfortable position.

"I believe you said you read my writings before?"

Tom nodded again.

"Didn't know they even published over in the states. How'd you hear of them?"

"Friend," Tom said with a near-wistful expression.

"Do you have a favorite?"

"Study-in…-"

"A Study in Scarlet?"

"Yeah," he replied with a cringe, barely audible.

"I'm sure once this is all behind us, Holmes wouldn't mind taking you through it himself. If you wanted to."

Tom nodded, cracking the bare hints of a smile.

Watson smiled too, glancing at Allan before continuing. The hunter knew what the doctor's aim had been in that little introduction. It was nice to know that he, at least, had some tact and poise about his patients.

"I don't mean to deter you from what we need to do here, Tom," the doctor continued. "But I just want you to know that you can trust me. I do have _some_ experience in this. And it's going to be uncomfortable at first, but we need to know how badly you've been injured."

Tom looked away and didn't respond at first, but eventually nodded again.

"He's in a great deal of pain already," Allan said, biting back a growl of warning. "Try not to make it any worse."

"I'll do my best. Have him lie on his back, will you?"

"Ready," Allan asked.

Tom gripped the arm that held him tighter in response. Allan was as gentle and as quick as he could possibly be. But it looked as if even lying on his back was causing the boy discomfort. He didn't let go of that hand that was holding his own though. It was practically the only contact Allan thought he could give the boy without scaring him. He'd seen his fair share of wounded animals before, but nothing had prepared him for what they were all about to go through.

"Easy part first, then," The doctor said.

And it was relatively easy. Once they convinced Sawyer to let go of Allan's coat the examination began above the waist. The ugly bruising at the throat was the first concern. Tom seemed to be breathing fine but flinched in pain rather than fear when the doctor applied the slightest pressure to the bones in his throat. He indicated that he could swallow without much difficulty, but then there was the voice that sounded as if it had been ripped to pieces. Either way it looked like the boy would be on a strict diet once they could get some food into him.

The cuts and inflammation at his ankles and wrists were in desperate need of sterilization and cleaning. Sickness had begun to overtake him, made clear by the raging fever and sweat gathered on his forehead. The doctor mentioned the possibility of an ice-bath if it was to grow any worse and Allan cringed at the idea. He'd been on the receiving end of a few of those in his younger years and there was nothing pleasant about them, even if you felt as if you were burning from the inside out. The shock alone nearly did him in once.

Thankfully, no ribs were broken, but the doctor grew suspicious about the growing bruise on the boy's stomach. Internal bleeding would only complicate matters when it came to the rest of his injuries. When they had gotten to the inflamed bite marks though, Allan had to look away to gain his restraint back. If he were a weaker man he would have damned himself and ripped every singular bone free of that man's body in retribution. But Tom didn't need that person, he needed someone strong, someone who could lessen the load, someone to hold onto for the hardest part of the examination.

"Alright," the doctor said. "I need you to bend your legs and plant your feet on the floor."

The small task soon defeated the boy's resolve, but the doctor helped to move his legs into the proper position. Harsh breaths filled the thick silence in the room and stole any hope for a peaceful proceeding. The doctor paused and laid a hand on the boy's knee, trying to draw his attention from beyond the tightly shut eyes. Both he and Allan new this was from more than physical discomfort. But what could they do if Tom wouldn't have it? One way or another this needed to be done, and Allan knew that before Watson turned to him with a look of sympathy.

"He needs to calm down, or this is going to be more painful than it needs to be."

That was the deciding factor. He might have been afraid of scaring the boy before but damn his own fears. He was going to help Tom through this, one step at a time, one breath at a time if that's what it took. So he used his other hand and brushed back the damp hair on his head. That simple touch was enough to rouse the young American, and his eyes latched onto the hunters, begging for some reprieve.

"You look at me, son," Allan said. "Just look at me."

For the time being, that was enough. The doctor, from what he could tell, had better nerves than what Allan would have had. Give him a target to shoot, a madman to take down in the heat of the moment and his hands would have been perfectly steady. This, he conceded, was beyond him. The hunter almost put an end to it after hearing Tom's protests and seeing the tears leak free during the worst but Watson beat him to the punch.

"We're done."

Two wonderful words that instilled such relief made it seem a sin to wait for. They'd made it through. It was done…for now. They could move him. They could leave this hell and never look back.

The doctor made a grab for the pants that had previously been used as a restraint and inspected them for cleanliness. The face me made said enough, but there was necessity in it. It was getting close to December and the temperature outside was cold enough to warrant concern. Once that was accomplished, Tom almost immediately started curling into his side, turning further onto his front and letting out a groan as soon as he got comfortable. Suddenly, the sound of hoofs and carriages were heard outside.

"That ought to be the Yard," Watson muttered. "Never one for bloody timing. I'll take care of the men upstairs and get the carriage ready for them both. We just need to be careful not to aggravate his injuries further."

"Make it quick," was all Allan said before the doctor hurried up the stairs to direct the Inspector and his men. When they were left alone again the hunter let out a sigh of relief. That, in all the years of his life, had been one of the most difficult things he had to experience. He'd lost count the number of times that his own eyes tried to mutiny. Things had been so much different when this was just a phantom dancing around in the uncertainty of it all. Staring him in the face right now made it seem more than painfully real.

"S'rry," Tom whispered.

His brows furrowed in confusion. "We went through this earlier. You have nothing to-"

"Leftyou."

"What are you talking about?"

"League…Itriedto…h-he said…"

Anger rose up again, but it stopped at his teeth and did nothing more than grip them shut. "Did he threaten you?"

"No…you, theleague." A small gasp. Then a jerk of the boy's head. "My-croft-hepromised-"

"He's alive," Allan said, tucking the oversized coat closer around Tom's frame. "You both are. Now, why don't you do us a favor and rest that voice of yours. You'll need it when those two doctors start giving you their attention."

Tom pulled a face that was halfway between a cringe and something else. What that something else was wasn't anything new to Allan, but familiar. It reminded him of better times, before anyone knew Richard Harding's name.

* * *

**Ran out of steam, cut some corners, and I apologize for that, but I am partially happy with it since it isn't entirely reliant on dialogue this time. It was also a bit selective on the character choice here, but I kind of knew this chapter would be like that when we came to it. The Allan/Tom relationship was long overdue. So the last chapter will include everyone, obviously. And with a new twist that I guarantee you will never guess. But a hint I suppose is in order. It involves one of the principle characters that was not mentioned or seen in this installment, and one who has a bit of unfinished business that was mentioned much earlier in the story. **

**One more chapter and an epilogue and this thing will officially be done. As you are reading this I am in the midst of writing the last chapter. The epilogue has been done for a while and just needs a little tweaking. Almost there, my lovelies. Just please bear with me. And please take the time to review if you can! **

**-Rainsaber**


	23. Ashes in the Wind

**Chapter Twenty-Three – Ashes in the Wind**

They acted quickly once all was said and done. Once Lestrade had seen the damage to both parties and successfully held himself together he had the sudden sense, and without Sherlock's input, to clear his men from the area. The detective acted on impulse, on his own memories from past experiences of injury, and helped Watson carry his brother up the stairs and into the carriage waiting for them in the street. He vaguely wondered whether Mycroft was conscious enough to notice the trembling in his arms and hands. Shock. That's what Watson had called it once, when he'd encountered the second of his boys to die because of his inability to put his personal feelings aside and attain enough objectivity to sort the criminal out.

The fact that this villain had learned from Moriarty was no excuse. He'd learned his lesson with those two boys. And his brother's weight in his arms was proof that he could regain his faculties after such a blunder. Sherlock was not God in all his omniscience, but sometimes he wished he was. It was because of those rare moments of weakness that he pushed himself so hard, why he often pushed Watson as well, why he was cold and distant. To give in to those moments, to allow himself to feel and emote as any normal person would, and perhaps should, would mean forsaking the lives of those who had been put into jeopardy. Sherlock Holmes had a life's obligation to this twisted masochistic craft.

And he admitted to himself that it was so. But self-analysis and ponderings of the human condition were Watson's occupation. His doctor served him as a reminder of when he went too far and when he let his mask slip. Was it a comfort, to know that he wasn't alone in this performance? Perhaps. But was it worthy of his time at present? No.

He was careful when they loaded Mycroft onto one of the benches inside. Watson had pulled him in by the shoulders and was settling him down while Sherlock watched from the door. They had almost been too late. Time hadn't been a factor. If he had done this on his own, acted on his own, then Mycroft would surely still be dead. He felt for the pulse himself. The shock of the cold touch only added to…that ridiculous display of emotion. He was thankful, that was certain. But he was confused. So bloody confused that he felt his soul ache for the promised-bliss of the needle waiting back in Baker Street.

"Holmes?" Watson called.

Sherlock came back to himself under the realization that Watson had been calling to him for some time. He let his body sway to regain his equilibrium, but Watson's hand shot out regardless. And it had been a good thing it had because a sudden sweat broke out on his face, made him dizzier than he had felt before coming back to himself in the basement of that horrid excuse for a house. The doctor had left Mycroft's side and stood by Sherlock in the street as the hunter and his charge entered the carriage behind them. That attention that snapped to him didn't falter, even when the hunter asked about positioning the injured boy.

"Lay him on his front," Watson said. He then dropped his voice down to a whisper and leaned in closer to Holmes. "Are you alright? You look like you're about to faint. Look at me man!"

Sherlock took a deep breath and finally looked up, seeing faint traces of shock in Watson's features as well. But his mind registered it as a different kind of shock. Something less severe and more reserved, as would be expected of any doctor…and soldier, for that matter. Lucky for them that Watson was both.

"You asked me once…" Sherlock began, trailing off after resting his eyes on the boy lying on the other seat with a strong wince. The hunter knelt by his side and put a hand lightly on the boy's back and whispering things to him, comforting nonsense perhaps. "You asked me about my methods...when we met all those years ago. And I was honest. You wrote of our exploits and your perception of my nature. I did not challenge you because it was the truth. There is a reason why I avoid any kind of sentiment at every juncture. Passion does me no service like it does you, old chap."

He couldn't help but break the eye contact. The guilt was plain for them both. Perhaps it screamed more to Watson than it would to anyone else, considering how well they knew each other. But either way Holmes didn't have the energy left to mask it. He needed something familiar, something he could grasp onto and control, like always. The past few days had taken it's toll on him and the short victory over Campion Bond had only been a small dosage of the medicine that he truly needed.

"Will you be alright until we reach the ship? Won't do to have you falling off the carriage and leaving us without a cabbie," Watson said.

Ah, that was familiar.

"Look after Mycroft," Sherlock replied, feeling some of the tension leave him and allow him room for more air. He took another deep breath and decided that their departure was overdue. He nodded to Watson and turned about to climb his way up to the waiting reins.

"Holmes," Watson said, briefly grabbing hold of his arm. "The worst may not be over."

Sherlock didn't say a thing. And he didn't need to. The look he gave Watson said enough. _We've come too far to fail now. I will not allow it. And you won't either._

_

* * *

_

Once the first carriage had gone, Nemo, Mina, and Jekyll quickly scrambled into the second one with one of Nemo's men at the helm. It was only when the carriage door had been shut that Mina noticed they were one short. "Where's Mr. Skinner?" she voiced.

"I believe," Nemo started. "He said they were 'personal matters,' Mrs. Harker."

The captain knew the answer was purposefully vague, but who was he to divulge the information when their focus should be fixed on something more important? Skinner had left to chase after his own past. And they were heading towards a fight for two futures. Frankly, they didn't have the time to waste. Nemo wasn't entirely sure how he felt on the matter just yet. But he knew if he took the time to think about it he would need to work out his anger sooner rather than later. As before, they simply could not afford the time.

_"I can't live like 'is," Skinner said behind him. "Not now. Not knowin'. I don' expect everyone to understand, bu' jus' tell 'em for me. I need 'is righ' now. An' in the long run Tom will too. Please?"_

_ Nemo looked to Hyde, who was clearly furious and would have attacked had the serum not been nearing its end. Hyde merely growled in answer and said something close to "He doesn't need you." But Nemo couldn't have been sure because he heard the sound of someone running away. He turned and listened more than he watched. He stood there, in the back of the house, until Skinner was gone and until Jekyll was in an exhausted heap on the crooked stairs. _

"'Personal matters?'" she exclaimed, as the carriage jerked into motion. "Tom is alive! Something I am certain has been plaguing him since his disappearance. What could he possibly be doing that requires his attentions away from this?"

"Mina?" Jekyll asked in a weary voice, and from beneath an offered Yardsman coat. She turned to him and some of the indignation was lost at seeing the doctor so tired. "Have you ever thought of what he's done before he came to us?"

She was silent. They all were. No one wanted to think of it, not after what they had seen and heard. And it was still far from over. Nemo pondered as their quiet journey wore on. Perhaps the invisible man knew more than he had let on. Certainly nothing had happened on his ship…and the more he thought about it the more he was certain nothing had. Mr. Skinner was not the type of man that he had handled earlier. He had thought, perhaps, that Mr. Skinner had been familiar with those type of men…but never did he dare to imagine that he may have been one of them. And if he had then he had changed much since that time.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise, he supposed. But after all they had done as the League, after all the aid he had willingly provided. And then there was the matter of the relationship between Mr. Skinner and Sawyer. He had thought he had been imagining things at the time, but now that he looked back upon it, there had been a distance that had grown between them. Why that was still remained to be seen. Suspicions were all he had at the moment. He just prayed those suspicions would be answered before something terrible befell them all again. They had just regained their young charge. He was not entirely sure what would happen were they to lose another.

* * *

The trip had run smoothly. The villains had been shut behind bars to await their respective trials, and any further issue would be dealt with when the League and its colleagues were damn well ready. It had been ensured, courtesy of Mr. Holmes' generous involvement with the Yard, and in payment to his services, Nemo had provided both he and Dr. Watson rooms for lodging during the recovery of his brother. It would also grant Dr. Jekyll some reprieve in light of another doctor's presence. There was Nemo's personal physician, of course, but having someone familiar, according to Quatermain, was more than a convenience. It was a necessity for the situation placed upon them all.

It had been easy, getting Tom and Mycroft to the infirmary. The hard part came when the two had to be treated. Mycroft had been a difficult case, one that required more than any regular physician's attention. As said from the traitor's mouth, the serum in the vial had only been temporary, for as soon as they had gotten him settled into a cot and had given him some much needed blood (donated, of course, by his younger brother) his color did not improve. And to make matters worse, his temperature continued to drop. Whatever had been in the vial had saved Mycroft's life, and it had also given the two chemists time to dissect the scientists notes and procure an antidote that would reverse the process. But both were beginning to wonder whether it would all be in vain if they could not find it within the next few hours.

Time passed slowly as they theorized in her room, around the instruments that ached to be used. They tested every one of their theories, and it seemed as if it were every five or ten minutes that another failure was verbalized, either in frustrated grunts or bemoaned cries of anguish. There was only so much blood that Mina would be able to give to their studies, and this was realized somewhat late, when her own pallor began to yellow and when patches of skin in her face and arms began to flake dry. Neither, however, gave up hope. Finally, when it seemed as if hope had abandoned them, Sherlock gave a small exclamation by the microscope.

Mina practically flew out of her own seat and pushed him aside as she took a look for herself, her own exhaustion forgotten. A sigh of relief followed, and the air in the room lightened dramatically as they both shared a laugh at their success. Hours later, Sherlock was still seated by his brother's side after the antidote had been given, sleeping soundly. The lights had been dimmed for both sleeping parties. Quatermain sat next to Tom's bedside, grasping the boy's hand firmly as if it were a physical link.

She spared a second to watch. Tom's brow creased and he began to grow restless, as if he were seeing something horrible replaying before his eyes. A soft sound of discomfort came loose and her heart swelled with pity at the sight. She would have tried her own methods to sooth those young features but the hunter merely tightened his hold on Tom's hand and the phantoms were gone. Tom eased back down into sleep as if they had never been there, just like he had when she sang to him all those nights ago in a dark alley…chasing away ghosts.

A breath escaped that had previously been trapped behind her lips in anticipation. It never occurred to her that their battle would be far from over once they had gotten Tom back. She was no stranger to the nightmares of physical trauma…to the memories that were monsters themselves, constantly reshaping and molding to what progress She walked silently over to Mycroft Holmes. She laid a hand on his cheek and smiled at the growing warmth she felt there. She could feel the blood growth beneath his abused skin. That was a good thing.

"I would ask if vampires ever sleep," Holmes whispered, cracking open his heavy eyelids. "But that would leave myself open to a rather obvious retaliation."

She turned from her crouched position and noted the new patch of gray in the man's head of dark hair. "Yes, Mr. Holmes," she replied, quiet. "It would indeed. Of course we sleep. In my defense, however, I must point out that you and I share something in common besides our choice of interests. Physical natures aside."

"And that would be?"

"Our stubborn will. We have both sacrificed much for this moment."

Holmes only nodded his weary head in response.

"Go," she offered. "Rest. I will alert you if there is any change in your absence."

"And what of your needs?"

"My needs?"

"The extensive blood-letting you allowed for this purpose surely had some effect?"

She smiled again, touched more so at his concern for his brother than for her well being. "They have been satisfied," she said, purposefully cryptic. "Do not let it concern you so. I am no stranger to my baser needs."

He took a moment to study her features for any deception before replying. "And if I were to have any reservations in trusting my brother's fragile state to someone of your kind?"

She let no reaction touch her face, understanding of his reservations and also repulsed by the touch of prejudice she felt. "Do not be so quick to believe in the tales that you hear of my kind, Mr. Holmes. Contrary to popular belief I cannot manipulate the minds of man as easily as you would think. And even if I could, you would undoubtedly be quite a challenge."

Holmes was silent, and did not give any indication away as to whether he believed what she had told him.

"Henry will return soon if it would ease your mind."

"No," he acquiesced with a sigh. "My apologies. I should have no reason to distrust you. You have been nothing but accommodating thus far."

"As have you," she countered. "Without your intellect we may have lost what was most precious to us."

His features fell, weighed down with a quiet sorrow that was hard to see in the dim light. And his eyes traveled across the room to a point that Mina knew without having to look. "But you have already lost something…"

"Something precious _was_ stolen," Jekyll murmured behind them, his energy replenished, and Hyde's vigor suppressed…for a while. "But the loss can be filled over time, repaired and replaced with something new. Something better."

Mina smiled at his soft-spoken determination and rose from the floor, crossing to Henry, but laying a hand on Sherlock's shoulder on her way. He looked to her with a seed of hope in his own eyes. Thoughts, she supposed, on his brother more than the traces of guilt he seemed to feel over Tom. The man of answers was looking to her for reassurance, for truth that he didn't have the strength to find. "In this life," she said. "There are some things that are not as final as they seem. Nothing need remain in pieces when we have the means to fix them."

* * *

Jekyll replaced the candle by Tom's bedside as night fell. Quatermain had been conscious for only a moment to see who had come to Tom's bedside. With a nod the old hunter was off again. And to Jekyll, that was a good thing. They had all been under a great deal of stress lately. No one needed the rest more than Allan, he supposed.

John Watson leaned against the door in a shirt with rolled up sleeves and an unbuttoned vest. What surprised Jekyll about him was that although everything else said the man was exhausted, there was no evidence in his face. All Jekyll could see was determination _–Discipline of a soldier, Henry. Someone who knows how to handle a gun. Unlike you-_ He shook his head and rose to join his fellow doctor, leaving his vigil for a momentary rest.

"He's had no reaction to the medicine?" Watson whispered.

"No," Jekyll said with a sigh. He slipped on his jacket to ward off the cold of the hallway. "None."

Watson nodded in thought. "That's good. And the fever?"

"Growing, I'm afraid."

"That's to be expected."

"It's already too high, if it doesn't break within the next couple of hours-"

"He'll need an ice bath," Watson finished, grim.

Neither wanted to explore that option but it was becoming more apparent by the hour that one may be needed. It was unpleasant for all parties involved and there was bound to be protests from either Tom or Quatermain…God forbid both or they'd be arguing for much longer than it would take to actually perform the task. _-Then let the whelp die! That will shut them up quick and save us both the trouble!- _Jekyll winced and brought a hand to massage the side of his head. He'd been wondering when Edward would start to act up. Now, however, was hardly the time to do so.

"Are you alright?" Watson asked with concern.

"Fine. It's nothing."

The older doctor didn't seem all too convinced, but thankfully he didn't press the issue. Watson knew how notorious doctors were as patients, and he wasn't willing to open that door at a time like this. A short silence followed, before Jekyll looked up in surprise at Watson's sudden admission. "I never asked his name…"

Jekyll didn't quite know how to respond at first. He knew who the other doctor was referring to. There was no doubt in that. But was it out of curiosity? And if so, then why? Why would he be asking about Hyde? Hadn't he been repulsed by what he had seen? Jekyll looked for answers to those questions he didn't dare voice, but found nothing. Watson was as cold as a stone, the very same as Sherlock Holmes. Falsely deceptive. He could feel Hyde growing restless under his skin and took that as a warning.

"Perhaps it would be best if you didn't," Henry replied.

"Well, either way, I simply thought he should know how extraordinary he is, if neither of you knew already."

Jekyll's brows furrowed, not in confusion but in intrigue. "Tonight was hardly a show, Dr. Watson."

"John, please. I can't stand titles among colleagues."

"Colleagues?"

"Might as well be. We'll be working closely over the next few weeks, I'm sure."

"Yes, I suppose we will." Jekyll considered the older man and had already made up his mind, but as a favor to his other half he turned inward and waited. When nothing came of it he extended his hand, pleased with both sides of himself that he actually felt comfortable enough to call someone a colleague. "Henry."

They shook hands briefly and gazed back to the sleeping occupants of the room. John held back a yawn and promised to return after a cup of tea, or perhaps something stronger at Henry's suggestion. He asked the way to the galley and made for the staircase at the end of the hall when Henry gave the simple directions. Jekyll watched as Watson ran a hand through his hair as he walked away. Something clicked in his mind as he stared at the retreating form of the older doctor.

"John?" Jekyll called softly, just as Watson was about to turn the corner of the hallway to the staircase.

"Yes?" he said, turning back and stopping at the sight of a different look on Henry's face…and not entirely sure it was Henry he was still speaking to. The dark gleam in his eyes gave it away rather easily.

"It's Edward, if you were still curious."

* * *

A young woman wiped the sweat off her forehead as she stood in front of the open window. The blonde locks that fell in her face curled under the heat of the water where she had just washed the last of the dinner dishes. She sighed against the cold wisps of air that caressed her heart-shaped face, and stayed there until goose bumps had begun to form on her arms. She turned away and walked back to the counter, grabbing a towel to dry the last of them, working methodically and losing herself in it.

"Theresa," someone said. Someone who wasn't her husband. Someone who whispered near her ear. Someone who was physically close to her. Someone who was too close. Someone who was unwelcome.

She jumped when she gasped and felt the plate slip out of her hands when she moved aside. But she didn't hear it shatter. Instead, she saw it stop in mid-air on its way down to the floor…as if someone had caught it. Her face went white, but her hands fisted in her skirt as she backed away from it as slowly as she dared.

"Please," it said, stopping her escape. "Don' scream. I ain't here to hurt you. I promise."

Someone was talking. Talking to her. Someone was talking to her who she couldn't see. A ghost? It didn't feel like a ghost. Could they touch things? Hold things? …hold things for this long?

"My plate," she blurted.

"Though' it'd be better for you to see somefin' at least. Didn' want to give you a fright is awl."

She looked to the kitchen door. It was cracked. If she were to call, she would surely be heard. James would hear her. He would come.

"W-what d-d-do you want? If it's money-my husband, he-"

"No. I don' want nofin from you. Nofin but an ear. There's somefin I need to say, and it's somefin you never had a'chance to undastand."

She was silent, frozen in place, fearful of what the invisible man would say, what he would do if she were to call for help. But she was more frightened of what she would hear. She shook in places and ways that she hadn't since she was a little girl, since…

"I want to apologize to you, for what I did when you were fifteen," he said.

Her hand flew over her mouth in shock, tears threatening to fall.

"I…I was…I was a selfish sod and you didn' deserve it. If I could take it back…"

He paused, when the tears broke free and fell down her face in streams. She closed her eyes and muffled a sob behind her small hands. The plate in his hand trembled. But he managed to still it and gain enough reserve to finish what he started.

"I had no right to take from you what he should of had the right to take, what you had the right to give. An' I am sorry. I don' expect forgiveness. I don't expect anythin'. I jus' couldn' live wiv' myself knowin' that you never had an explanation."

That was all. The plate returned to the counter and she could hear footsteps retreating to the window. The sill creaked and the rosemary bush below it rustled. He had left as soon as he had come, leaving her with an agonizing confusion in wake.

"Theresa?"

She turned and saw her husband in the door. Her James. His concern. His care. He crossed the room and wiped her face dry, spouting question after question, begging for answers to her distress. "What's wrong? Darling, you're shaking. Was someone here? I thought I heard voices? Who was it? Why are you crying?"

"No one," was all she had the strength to say.

James said nothing, but embraced her and shushed her sobs. He rocked her back and forth, weathering something old, something that had long since been opened, shut, and reopened again. Her hands clutched the fine fabric covering his back and she buried her nose in his neck to smell the sweet cologne he used, grounding herself in the reality that she now had. Once her tears were entirely spent she peered over her husband's shoulder and stared at the open window, wondering whether the unseen visitor had indeed left without bothering to listen for her response.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome, darling," James said.

But she didn't respond. She continued to stare out the window of their house. She thought she saw something sparkling in the dark, but she couldn't have been sure.

* * *

**I hope the beginning section answers for some of my OCness on Sherlock's part. Throughout this story there had been a bunch of that going on and I thought it best to answer it before this part is done rather than leave you with the impression of a false Sherlock Holmes. What I really wanted to explore with him were the dangers of giving into those personal biases/feelings as far as his close friends/relatives go. The guy is definitely an 'automaton' as described by Conan Doyle, but everyone has weaknesses and moments when they lose control. And, in canon too, Sherlock has his own. If you're curious, read "The Adventure of the Three Garridebs" by Conan Doyle and you'll see what I mean.**

**Epilogue to follow…**

**And…um…review? Por favor? I LOVE YOU ALL ^^**

**-Rainsaber**


	24. Epilogue

**Aww, it's over! Part one anyway. I just want to thank all my reviewers and readers again. You really mean the world to me and kept me going through all of this, even when I thought this thing would never get done. Thank you so much for all your love and support. As a token of my thanks, here's the epilogue that I'm sure you'll all enjoy after all that I put these poor characters through. Hopefully this ties some things up as well. **

**Epilogue**

_2 days later…_

Allan jerked awake, realizing the fire had gone down considerably since he must have fallen asleep. Sleep? If the dreamless drifting of his consciousness could even be considered sleep. He groaned aloud at the aches that erupted when he tried to move. Funny how he hadn't noticed them until now. But that was likely due to all the commotion that had him running on nothing but sheer will over the past couple of weeks. He rubbed the exhaustion out of his eyes and glanced at a shadow that hadn't been in the doorway when he'd settled down earlier. He was certainly more awake now.

"What the ruddy hell are you doing up?" he asked. Although he meant to chide the boy for his recklessness, he couldn't find the energy to put it into his voice. Tom was bound to still be in a considerable amount of pain, but some part of him was selfish enough to not see him back to bed. Seeing the boy, even in this state, up and moving on his own brought him comfort, gave him hope after all that had happened.

Tom reached out to steady himself as he stopped leaning against the doorway, keeping hold of the blanket around his shoulders. He slowly made his way over to Allan by the fire. "Too bare," he whispered. "Too cold."

Allan nearly cringed at the sound of Tom's voice, thinking that two days of rest had hardly done any good. The silence, however, would certainly be more oppressive than the sound of a broken voice…like the one he barely heard in that basement. Every time he closed his eyes he could see those dreaded stairs, leading down to the horrible truth he tried to deny while he was awake, while they were both awake.

For a moment he thought Tom hadn't heard him, because the boy continued across the room, past the couch and chair by the fireside, and chose a spot on the plush carpet, not a foot from the warmth the dying fire was still providing. Allan pushed himself to his feet and eased the boy as he knelt down, his immediate fears shooting to the unseen stitches and whether they were at risk of tearing. He watched for any sign from the boy that they were and saw nothing. That, above any other bodily pain would surely be difficult to hide.

And the presence of a fever was even harder to hide. If the blanket weren't enough evidence then the gathered sweat and overall pale appearance would put the matter to rest. The unavoidable truth of the matter was that Tom's fever had raged on over the past couple of days, even after a rigorous regiment of medicine and two ice baths. The delirium returned to rear its ugly head too, making the boy shout obscenities and alternately plead for mercy when he wore himself out. In all it was a rough experience on all parties involved.

They knew that Tom acted out only because he lacked the strength to fight back…but that didn't make it any easier. It was both a blessing and a curse because it gave them the freedom to help but it also brought the guilt of taking some sort of advantage of Tom when he was most vulnerable. Allan knew that Tom trusted him and that the boy would continue to do so. But he also knew how fragile that trust was right now. And if he wasn't careful, it would snap right in his hands.

"Wouldn't you be more comfortable in your room?" Allan asked.

"Here's good," Tom murmured, curling up on his side as if he were some poor wounded dog.

"Bloody American," Allan mumbled to himself. Cursing his own body, he sat down next to Tom after taking time to stoke the fire, settling himself in as he leaned back against the chair he just vacated.

Tom's head rose and he watched as Allan sat down. To the hunter's surprise, the boy pulled himself over to him, grabbing the fabric covering his knee and choosing to lay his head there as well. Tom didn't look up at him, didn't ask permission. So Allan didn't either, resting his hand and his assurance on Tom's shoulder. The boy flinched and clenched his fist for a moment but seemed to relax after some effort. There was age in the boy's eyes that had no business being there, and Allan wasn't sure he could help make it disappear as he had with the real villain. So he glared at the emergence of a foreign feeling in his own body but managed not to retract what he had freely given. The boy needed to know that nothing was wrong.

"You don't have to do this, son," Allan said. "If you're not ready-"

"No. I know it's you. Kn-know-i's you-"

"Alright. Just calm down and rest. You'll need it when Jekyll's figured out where you've gone."

"Let 'im," Tom murmured.

Allan's other hand was itching to brush back the matted and tangled mess that had become of Tom's hair, but he was afraid of scaring the boy further with any more physical contact. So, instead, he rubbed the shoulder of Tom's clean shirt with his thumb. Offering the smallest amount of comfort he felt he could give.

"Where's Skinner?" the boy whispered.

"…Had some business he needed to take care of." Allan was careful to mask his emotions with that one. He hadn't been surprised once he found out, but he also knew that it would do no good to add to the situation they already had on their hands. He was happy the invisible man was gone. It would save them both the trouble of any unforeseen accidents. And it would save Allan the trouble of searching for the right person to take out all his anger and frustration on. Without said person close by, life was easier at present.

Both lapsed into a comfortable silence for a while. Allan was lost in his own musings and had thought that Tom had fallen asleep. But once again, the American surprised him. "Dreamed about this," he whispered.

"About what?"

"We'were home…with my aunt. Can almost hear her hummin' to herself….while she's makin' somethin' atthestove."

"I can imagine the trouble you must have given that poor woman."

Tom started shaking, but it was to Allan's relief that it was nothing more than laughter. "She…tanned my hide good."

The corners of Allan's mouth itched upward when he allowed himself to think of the possible scenarios. "I'll bet."

"First sight'a tears though…an' she'd smother you til they're done."

"Sounds like you miss her…"

"Yeah…"

Silence reigned again, bursting into every corner and crevasse of the room as if it were winter's chill, finally coming to call. Tom's breathing increased, as if it were hard for him to catch his breath. But what kept Allan from speaking up was the fact that there was no panic in the American's eyes. Tension rose in his small body, to a point where words spilled out like fresh rain from the sky after a long humid day on the savannah.

"I'm sorry-nevertoldyou-I was afraidan'stupid-I didn' meanforallthis-"

Allan winced at the sound of that tenuous voice. "Easy now. What's this all about?"

"It's my fault-"

"What is?" Tom's hold on Allan's knee tightened, fabric captured between bony fingers that begged for some stability.

"_Everything,_" he whispered.

This was not the first time that Allan took a moment to curse the day that Richard Harding had been born. This was not the first time that he wished he had pulled the trigger in that basement and ended something that never should have been. But he honored the boy's request for justice. And here they both were with what remained in the aftermath of it all. And it made his blood boil.

"You'd better have a good reason for saying something as foolish as that," Allan said. "Because I'll tell you right now that it's far from the truth."

"But-"

"_Explain_ to me how you think this is all _your_ fault."

Tom let out a shaky breath, ignoring a lone tear that escaped his left eye. "You were right…about me…being like him. Didn'tell anyone. Didn' let anyone-in. He…he was-right…I triedtofight but…I was afraid-too much of a-a-coward…I…_I deserved-it_-"

Allan was shocked…to put it lightly. Incredulous may have been a better word because he didn't even pause to consider his actions when he grabbed that shoulder and twisted the boy around to face him. "Are you even listening to what you're saying?"

Panic was what he saw. And it cooled the fire that had erupted in him so suddenly. He was scaring the boy. He knew this, but he couldn't bring himself to back off and find another route. Disturbing rationale such as this needed to be dealt with at the first sign. It needed to be pulled out, roots and all, no matter how deep they ran. So Allan had no choice but to cut deeper than he wanted to.

"Since when have you murdered and raped for your own satisfaction?"

Tom's eyes widened and he looked as if someone had just slapped him across the face. "Wh-what-"

"That man is a monster that threw his life away to pursue his own greed and lust for more. He fulfilled his own desires at the expense of others, without a care for their wellbeing or existence. He is, in every sense of the word, a selfish man who isn't even worthy of being considered a human being. Tell me something. Why did you leave the League to go after him alone?"

Tom stared at him, tears leaking down the sides of his face.

"Answer me, son," Allan said, softer. "Why did you leave?"

"To save you," Tom breathed. "All of-you…he-he said-"

"It doesn't matter what he said to you. You are nothing like him and you never will be, not if I have anything to say about it."

"You'd stay? After all this?"

"I would. And I am."

Tom's trembling lips quirked up into a half-smile before returning to a frown. Allan eased the hold he had on the boy's shoulder and boldly used his other to brush back the tousled mess of hair that was partially hiding those eyes that used to shine so bright. They were dark now, pleading for someone to bring them to life again. But that wasn't what brought an enormous amount of relief and hope into his tired body. It was the fact that he felt the fever break and the skin begin to cool.

"Feel…better."

"Your fever broke," Allan said with a smile.

"Finally." Tom turned his head away and sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. But Allan wasn't done. He tapped Tom on the shoulder and brought those eyes back around to finish what needed to be said.

"I mean it now and I meant it before. I will not abandon you to this. It's not going to be easy," Allan continued. "But I am going to help you get through this. We'll find our way. We'll make one if we have to."

Tom averted Allan's gaze. "_You_ shouldn'have to."

"Hey. Leave that alone. You're alive and on the mend. That's all that matters to us, and to me. If you wanted anything otherwise you shouldn't have been so damn likeable."

Allan averted his gaze, having made his point…until Tom asked one very important question. "Why did you come back, Allan?"

He sighed, wondering when this question was going to come and regretting that it had come so soon. "Truthfully? Because of you."

"Why me?" he asked, voice getting raspier with every further use.

"Because you saved a part of me before I died, a part that I thought would never again see the light of day…not after Harry's death."

"…your son?"

"He was the one who brought me back."

"I don' understand-"

"I didn't either, but now I think I do." Allan paused to take his hand away from Tom's cooling forehead. "I lost myself when he died. When I met you, you reminded me of him…too much at first. And I felt something that I hadn't felt in a very long time. I didn't understand what it was because I'd forgotten it. When Harry sent me back…I remembered, through you, in that basement when you asked me to let the law punish that man instead. So many before you have tried and failed to bring me back from that dark place, Tom. You succeeded."

What Allan left unsaid was the fact that he now believed it was his responsibility to see the boy back to who he was before this whole mess. Tom had saved him and now it was his time for him to return the favor. Perhaps this was what Harry meant when he said that helping Tom was the only way he could help him, now that he was at rest. But was Harry at peace? He had done as Harry asked. He had found a way to find the peace that Harry wanted him to find. Now, he supposed, it was just a matter of achieving that peace.

"What happens now?" Tom asked.

"Ground rules," Allan said after a moment's thought.

"Rules?"

"Well if we're going to try and figure this out together, especially with your stubborn-streak-"

"And yours-"

Allan paused and looked down with slightly raised eyebrows. "…as I was saying, some rules would be a good idea."

"Sorry," Tom mumbled.

"First rule: No apologizing."

"Gonna break that-" he muttered with a glum look.

"I don't care. It's a still a rule."

"Consequences?"

"There are none."

"The hell's a rule-without…consequences?"

"A guiding hand instead of an iron fist. Second: No isolating yourself. If there's something we need to talk about then we talk about it. No hiding. No bottling it up. Gonna break that one?" he asked, almost as if he dared the boy to say yes.

"…maybe."

"Don't. And third: Every time you decide to share something personal with me, I share something with you. You ask, I answer."

"'bout anything?"

"Anything," Allan confirmed. "Those seem acceptable to you?"

Tom nodded his head while he eyelids started drooping. He almost gave in to the need for sleep but he snapped himself out of it and burrowed deeper into the blanket that Allan was adjusting around him.

"Whendo these rules start?" Tom asked, biting back a yawn and a wince at the stinging in his throat.

"As soon as you agreed to them."

The hunter waited patiently for the boy to talk, and was rewarded without having to wait long for the first of their obstacles. "'m afraid-start dreaming."

"Go ahead. If I see something, I'll wake you. If Jekyll manages to find you, he'll wake you. Either way you're going to wake up."

Tom looked up one final time before giving in to his body's needs and closing his eyes. He let out a single breath that held all of his insecurities and fears because he was in a safe place. After the hell he'd been through he was where he wanted to be. And even though something told him that the ordeal had just begun, he couldn't bring himself to think ahead, to worry about tomorrow. All that mattered to him now was this moment, this surreal moment of feeling safe…and dare he think, loved. He just hoped, prayed rather, that it would last.

* * *

**I think I'm going to take a little break for a while and get the bulk of this sequel done before I even think of posting it. Expect the sequel to be more centered on Tom and Allan than this one was. I'm curious as to whether the sequel can stand a T-rating since the extremity and graphic nature of the subject has already taken place in this story. But we'll see. Le sequel, An Angel's Requiem, will commence soon, so keep your eyes out.**

**It was a pleasure writing for all of you. There are some things I'm not happy with as far as the end product goes but overall I am happy with it as a whole. Thank you for bearing with me through it all, reviewers and readers alike! Leave a review on your way out if you can! T'was an honor. **

**-Rainsaber**


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